


Through Darkness and Shadows

by lmirandas



Category: Dark Artifices Series - Cassandra Clare, Infernal Devices Series - Cassandra Clare, Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF John, How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, Johnlock Roulette, Minor Character Death, Multi, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Greg Lestrade/Original Male Character, Past John Watson/Ragnor Fell, Past Mycroft Holmes/Original Male Character - Freeform, Post-Book Series: The Mortal Instruments, Warlock John, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-11 16:16:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7899505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmirandas/pseuds/lmirandas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes always sees more than other people, he observes. It makes him different than other people, this ability to see what lurks in every shadow. Sherlock Holmes has the sight.</p><p>John Watson is a warrior first, a warlock later. After many centuries roaming mundane battlefields he finds someone that pulls him out of his own mind and back into the fray. He is marveled by the hurricane that is Sherlock Holmes.</p><p>This is an AU in the Mortal Instruments universe, in which every story you've ever heard is true. If you walk the path of the angels, does it mean that you are one of them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is only my second fanfic ever, so patience, this is a WIP, however the 10 first chapters are already written and I will post every Sunday from today on.  
> Also, English is not my first language, but I can't help it, just love writing in it.  
> I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of Cassandra Clare's characters, this work is not for profit, just for fun.  
> Un betaed and un brit picked. Any mistakes are mine, sorry for that.

Sherlock Holmes had always seen things. Things he couldn’t really explain, that just happened before his eyes. The first time it happened, he was four years old, playing near the pond that was just on the limits of the Holmes’ state. He saw a pretty insect like lady, purple, with beautiful translucent wings, just the size of his own small hand.

“Look, Myc, look at the pretty lady.”

“Sherlock, there’s nothing there and you know it. Stop fooling around.”

 

Sherlock looked at his brother, a question in his eyes. He hero-worshiped the eleven-year-old boy, who was now on his way to attend one of England’s finest public schools. He couldn’t believe his brother was being cruel on purpose.

“So you really can’t see it Myc?”

“No, Sherlock, and neither can you. It’s just your imagination.”

 

Sometimes he thought Mummy could see them too. One day, as he was playing with a grey skinned small man in the yard, he saw his mother running to him. Picking him up from the grass, he could have sworn she was glaring at the man, before turning her back on him and bringing him inside.

“Darling, you must be careful love. Not everything outside wants to play with you, dear. Some things out there want to do you harm.”

“Could you see him, Mummy?”

His mother pierced him with her grey blue eyes, the mirror of his own.

“No darling, I could not. But you shouldn’t see him either, love.”

 

The next time, when he himself was away at public school, they took a trip to London. As they walked through Fleet Street, Sherlock got distracted by a beautiful building that looked just like a castle. Through the gates, he could see two young men, clearly brothers, one with a bookish look in his face and the other with a mischievous grin on his face.

“Come on, Arthur, we can see the entrance to the Seelie court from Regent's Park. Don’t you want to come too?”

“Andrew, we are on a mission. You are going to get us both killed. Gideon and Stephen are going to kill us if we screw this up.”

 

Sherlock could see the intricate tattoos they had on their arms. Clearly they were still very young, probably around Mycroft’s age or maybe even younger. But they had tattoos on them like they had a life of service in an army of some sorts.

“Holmes, stop staring at the old church. The rest of the group is leaving.”

 

Sebastian Wilkes was looking at him, clearly annoyed, wondering why Sherlock was wasting everybody’s time. So, once again, it was all in his head.

 

He managed to place a lot of things in his head, mastering the art of saving useful information in a special place in his mind, and erasing useless facts, like the planets in the solar system. Soon drawers started to accumulate, and a simple desk wasn’t enough, he had a special room in his mind for all the facts. Then, when he started his time at the University, learning new things through experimenting every day, even a manor House, like the Holmes state, wasn’t enough. It became a bigger property, like the one his grandmother had in the south of France, where he had spent many summers in his youth. But even that wasn’t enough. Soon he had a Palace in his mind, a Palace as grand as Versailles itself. And in the tower of that palace, all those things only he ever saw, the creatures, the buildings, even something as large as a town he glimpsed once as he was exploring the borders of France. The strange boys with tattoos, which he sometimes saw catching the tube. Other things he saw just a night, strange creatures that seemed threatening even to him. He even saw a ghost once, in his old flat in Montague street.

 

But seeing things no one else saw wasn’t normal, and Sherlock knew it. He studied the human mind, and began to see some parallels between himself and people suffering from mental illness. He kept what he saw to himself, because none of those things ever threatened him or anyone else. After all, he kept his distance, remembering the words his mother spoke to him all those years ago. The sight sometimes was too much, and he indulged in other things. The only times he didn’t really see anything at all was when he used. So he used, and used, until it became too much. The Sergeant found him in a gutter, in a pitiful state, and he managed to contact Mycroft. Then came rehab, and that wasn’t the last time. It was the first time of many.

 

Sherlock was pulling himself into a spiral of oblivion. Once, he thought he heard Mycroft say to him, as he laid barely conscious, strapped to a hospital bed, IV dripping into his arms.

“God, Sherlock, I wish I could have told you. I see them too.”

But the words didn’t really register with him, and his own mind deleted them before he could answer back.

 

The Sergeant started visiting him along with his brother sometimes. He pulls some cold cases for Sherlock to read, as his brother told him crime had always interested him. A little unorthodox, but most of them were really old cases anyway. Sherlock had solved the lot before the evening passed. He kept bringing cases along, no doubt covered by Mycroft, who know held a minor position in the British government. And the British Secret Service. Sherlock’s brilliant mind found an escape valve in the cases, cases that helped him ignore the things he still saw. Because they only stopped when he used.

* * *

 

John Watson was very special, thank you very much. He was immortal, for one thing. He also happened to be a warlock. And not just any warlock. He happened to be the living spawn of one of the greater demons, one of the princes of hell. There were only three of them, his twin sister, Harriet, as she chose to be called now, and his little brother. He thanked the heavens his father didn’t often mate with humans, because the three of them were pieces of work. John had lived many years, lounged under countless skies, and frankly, he was really fed up with all of it. Nothing excited him anymore. Nothing except war, that is. John Watson put the war in warlock, as his brother once told him. He had fought along with the humans in many wars, dating back since the Crusades, when he was young still and had all the fight left in him. He even went to America as a redcoat to fight against the rebels, for King and Country. He fought World War I, World War II (he hated the Nazis), and he was wounded many times. But he was difficult to kill, and his magic kept getting stronger as he kept getting older. He had fought all over Europe, joined many different armies, but England was his home, so he kept being drawn back over and over to London. After a difficult time in the 14 and 1500s he kept away from Transylvania, where he had a close call with the original Vampire nest. He hid his warlock mark with glamours, and when contact lenses were invented and commercialized in the 1970s, he didn’t even bother with them anymore, preferring the lenses that could really hide him from those who could see through glamours. It was simple and practical, and no one could say John Watson was not a practical man.

 

He had been in love only once in his long life. He fell in love with another warlock, a warlock with a dark sense of humor, and frankly a better moral compass than John himself had. He wanted to change things, he wanted rights for his kind. He even decided to teach the children of the Shadowhunters who always diminished Downworlders. They had a passionate and difficult relationship, spanning through many years and continents, on and off, mostly off, to be frank.

 

The last straw for John was Afghanistan. This time, he was wounded, and by magical means nonetheless. His arm was almost useless after that. Before Afghanistan, John had stopped using magic. And what happened to a warlock when he stopped using magic? They withered away. And they started to age. John was starting to look well into his thirties when he came back, wounded and miserable, cramping himself into a bedsit, like a wounded soldier, not a glimpse of the wonderful being he really was. His sister was battling her own wars, her marriage to a mundane crumbling, and her old addiction to fairy fruit kicking in. She was going to get trapped in the fairy revels if she wasn’t careful.

 

So John’s life was disappearing before his eyes, when he met an old mate from medical school. He had gone back, as he did many times in his lifetime, to refresh his knowledge and get his title once again. Mike Stamford greeted him. And Mike Stamford introduced him to Sherlock Holmes.

 

John felt alive again. Sharing the cases with his brilliant flatmate, who impressed him from the very start. He moved in with the madman after one day of meeting him, and his life was never boring after that. They started going on cases, running about London and in more than 200 hundred years John hadn’t felt like this. He started having complicated feelings for his newfound friend since day one. John had killed for him, not hesitating for a second, when he felt the man was in danger. He knew he would kill again if it meant saving Sherlock, as many times as it was necessary.

* * *

 Sherlock Holmes was attracted to John Watson like a moth to a flame. He sensed something different in John, but he couldn’t really pinpoint what it was. It could be that he was loyal, and caring, also really handsome. He cursed himself sometimes for rejecting John’s advances on their first night out. But with his anomaly, he had never been able to hold anyone close. He never opened to anyone, after the rebuttals he received from his mother and brother about his little “quirk”. He contented himself with the few people he let close, his loving landlady, Lestrade, who was now a DI and a quiet pathologist named Molly Hooper. And John. Now John Watson had woven himself into his live, unassuming and patient sometimes, a really angry little man other times, but really, Sherlock could get on anybody’s nerves most times. Now John didn’t even yell at him about the body parts in the kitchen. Then Moriarty came.

 

John hated Jim Moriarty from the start. His interest in Sherlock was unhealthy and his flatmate’s obsession with the criminal genius bordered on insanity. When he was strapped in Semtex on the side of that darkened pool, he considered using his magic and destroying the little man before him. He even considered drawing a summoning circle right there and calling his father for aid, something he had never done before.

 

He almost self-combusted when the whole Richard Brook thing surfaced. He knew Sherlock, he couldn’t believe all the lies that man had created and that little bitch of a reporter started spreading. He despised Donovan and Anderson for putting doubt in Greg’s mind. And, as he saw Sherlock on the ledge of the roof of St. Bart’s, he knew he needed to use his magic.

* * *

 

Sherlock was standing on the ledge. Damned Mycroft, everything was wrong. Nothing was ready yet. Lazarus was a no go yet, and he needed to jump. He cursed Moriarty, the man had put a bullet to his brain before everything was ready. But it was worth it, dying. He would die for Lestrade, for Mrs. Hudson, and he would die for John. For John. He would do it for John.

* * *

 

He should be dead. Really, he should.

“Sherlock.” He heard a faint whisper.

John was crouched next to him, hand on his wrist, checking his pulse. He felt dizzy, but otherwise unharmed.

“Tell me what you need, Sherlock.”

“I needed to die John, they are going to kill you.”

“Ok, we’ll just pretend you are dead. People are starting to come around; do you trust me?”

It was barely a hiss. “Yes.”

“Close your eyes.”

 

Then, Sherlock was dead. Or so it seemed, at least, to the crowd of spectators that appeared next to John, as he continued to act, mourning his best friend, following his body all the way up to the morgue at St. Bart’s. John had managed to break Sherlock’s fall, barely just. The man thought he was saving his life, that much he gathered, before he placed him into his death like spell. Just like Romeo and Juliet, but a bit more twisted and definitely _not good_. His little brother would be proud of him. Sherlock didn’t know he was extremely hard to kill, and incredibly easy to anger. He was going to find Moriarty and tear him apart limb by limb, quite literally.

 

Molly was crying as he reached the morgue, leaning next to one of her freezers for bodies. They were rolling Sherlock on the gurney and she leaped and grabbed John’s jacket.

“John, I’m so sorry! This wasn’t supposed to go this way! He was supposed to get away.”

John felt her tears on his clothing, and she placed his hands on her back. The orderlies that carried Sherlock left them alone, and John opened the bag, touched the detective and the man just sat upright, clearly alive. He looked at John in surprise.

“How, John?”

“Does it matter? What do you need now?”

“Mycroft. I need to leave undetected. I need my brother.”

“Did you have a code?”-Sherlock looked stunned and didn’t answer right away- “A code, Sherlock. Did you?”

“Lazarus.”

 

John didn’t want to think what the brothers were planning behind his back. He contained his anger as well as he could and texted Mycroft. He had a strange relationship with the man. He never forgot the first time he saw him, after he let himself be kidnapped, hoping for a good fight, and instead met a auburn headed man with a long nose, leaning on his umbrella, all bespoke suits and dark gloves.

“What in God’s name are you, John Watson?”

He never answered the question.

 

_‘Lazarus is a go, collect your package at the morgue at St. Bart’s’_

 

Mycroft himself arrived a few minutes later, and he hugged Sherlock. The younger man squirmed on his brother’s arms.

“You are alive, but how?”

“Not thanks to you, I’m sure of that. What happened?”

“Got delayed. Had to deal with the perpetrator. Gregory is injured, but alive.”

“Who?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, brother.”

“Ah, Gavin. Good. Can you leave me alone with John for a few minutes?”

 

At that precise instant, John received a text message. His sister.

_‘We need you. Loads of shite happening in Idris right now. Valentine is back.’_

“Shit.”

“John?”

 

They were alone now, and Sherlock was looking at him.

“I need to leave, John. Today. I need to dismantle Moriarty’s network. It might take me some time to get back here.”

To get back to you, Sherlock thought.

“Would you come with me?”

“Sherlock, there is nothing in the world I would want more than to be there for you. But right now my family needs me.”

 

Second text beeped.

_‘Hey big brother, long time no speak. Need to talk to you about our mutual green friend. We will probably need you in Idris, sugarplum. Seraphina is already here. XOXOXO’_

 

John’s gut twisted. Surely nothing had happened to him? Ragnor must be safe. And his sister was already using her lost name, the name warlocks around the world new, the only name she would allow them to call her. Things must really be serious. He didn’t know who he hated most right now, Valentine Morgenstern or Jim Moriarty.

 

“Your sister?”

“Yes, Harry needs me Sherlock. I need to go too. I will join you as soon as I can. If you can let me know your location, I’ll get there, anywhere, as soon as I can.

* * *

 

Sherlock fell broken inside. John was running away from him, running to help his drunken sister in some inane activity, no doubt. And Sherlock would be alone, he would be out in the world without John Watson. And he felt like falling apart, piece by piece.

 

Mycroft entered the room as John exited.

“You are leaving. You were summoned?”

“What are you talking about Mycroft Holmes?”

“I know now what you are. I just saw the surveillance video, John. Keep my brother away from the Shadow World. I’ve sheltered him from it his whole life. I know now I have to thank you for his life, but I really regret he… Well, it doesn’t matter now. You are leaving? For Idris?”

“I’m leaving right now.”

“There’s a secure room next door. You can make a portal there. You’ll find everything you need.”

“Mycroft Holmes, what on God’s name are you?”

Mycroft smiled, a fake one, no doubt, back at John.

“You never answered me back.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has to fight his own battles while Sherlock dismantles Moriarty's network. Losing his long lost lover and fighting united against former foes are one way to start.
> 
> But after Sherlock finishes destroying the spider's web, he wants to come back. Will he be able to get John back?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the wonderful Ariane Devere for her wonderful transcripts of the Sherlock scripts, which are partially used in this chapter.
> 
> I suck at linking but this is the reference:  
> http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/64080.html
> 
> You are not supposed to know anything about the Mortal Instruments to understand this fic.
> 
> This chapter is two days earlier than promised, but since I have to work on Sunday I thought I'd rather play on the safe side.

So John met his brother on the outside of a small stone house in Idris. Idris, the land of the Shadowhunters, a place that he could only visit properly with an invitation. He had to get permission from the Consul, the head of the Clave, after all, this was the seat of the Shadowhunter government. He would be damned if he cared at all. It wasn’t the first or the last time he entered Idris unannounced. He found his brother shaking, outside the small building.

 

“Johann, don’t. Please don’t.”

 

Hearing his brother use his given name, he knew before entering that Ragnor was dead. He went in anyway. He found the warlock he once loved dead on the floor, a darkened wound on his chest. Still as he remembered, forever unchanged, pale green skin, white hair, horns in his forehead, visible warlock marks that made impossible for him to wander undetected without the use of heavy glamours. His eyes, those eyes filled with wisdom and knowledge, now closed forever. He grabbed his unmoving body and wept.

 

“I’m so sorry, my friend. I’m sorry you had to face this alone. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, to protect you from whoever did this. You were always a thinker, a philosopher, but never a fighter. I’m going to find them, and it would be their turn to be sorry.”

 

His magic was flowing out of him, closing the wound, even if it was too late. He had stopped crying the moment he spoke his last words to Ragnor. He was a man with a mission now. He lifted the warlock’s green body, Ragnor had always been the taller one, but he was always the stronger.

 

“Johann?”

 

His brother had been crying. He wasn’t a man that cried, even less than John, and that was saying something.

 

“He was one of my best friends.”

“One of mine too.”

 

He scoffed at this, and looked back at him with dampened eyes.

 

“Sure, _‘friends’_. You guys have been pining for each other for centuries now. It was unhealthy.”

“Relationships and immortality are complicated, young one. I’m sure you know that by now.”

“Don’t I know.”

“And that’s when your partner is not a murdering psychopath. She sends her regards, by the way.”

“She’s in London now? She must be coming back soon; Raphael has his panties in a twist these days. And she knows we don’t talk.”

 

He never knew what his brother saw in associating with vampires, after all this time and all of John’s warnings he was still friends with the likes of Raphael Santiago, the current head of the New York vampire nest, guarding the post for his brother’s ex-lover, that treacherous leach known as Camille Belcourt.

 

“She does. I guess she wasn’t expecting something like this to happen.”

“Where are you taking him?”

“Back home. His home is in London. He was the High Warlock for ages, it’s his city, as well as mine.”

“Where?”

“My plot. At Highgate.”

“Oh, he would have loved that.”

“Take care. Whoever did this, is going to die.”

“I agree. This is war. We will probably need you back here.”

“You know how to reach me.”

“And Johann?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Take care, little brother.”

 

John took his lover back home, to his final resting place. He mourned him, and talked to him in his grave. It seemed like days passed, and he still haven’t heard a word from Sherlock. He was starting to feel restless. His phone beeped.

 

_‘It was Valentine. Come back.’_

 

Valentine Morgenstern, enemy to all Downworlders, fairies, werewolves, vampires and warlocks, all pursued by his unholy band of minions known as The Circle. But now he was also considered an enemy by his own people, by the Shadowhunters he wanted to raise to glory. John made a portal straight out of 221B, back to Idris. He kept his head low, as his brother waltzed around like he owned the place. There were still many vampires alive that wanted him dead, and he reminded his brother of that as they were roaming in the woods surrounded by other Downworlders. Harry was already there, her eyes almost black, as her pupils dilated when she was addressing Catarina Loss, a beautiful warlock woman who was a friend of their brother. That was a lost cause if John ever saw one. His brother was beaming at him, filled with energy. Not the same man he saw a couple of days ago. What happened since then?

 

“Don’t worry, no one knows who you are here. But I want you to meet someone. Luke, a word please.”

 

A tall man with multiple scars in his arms was talking to a bunch of werewolves, as he stepped back to join them.

 

“Magnus, is that Seraphina Sun? How did you get her to come here?”

“Yes, yes, well family must come through, you know that. She is my sister.”

“She is an amazing fighter. I’ve read accounts of some battles she fought along with the Iron Sisters. My mother said once she is one of the greatest warriors she has ever met, and she never says that about someone that’s not Nephilim.”

“Well, she is. She’s a mean killing machine, when she’s not dancing around with fairies. And this is the other half of the fighting duo. This is my brother, John Watson, formerly known as Johannes Sun. And I’m sure you know the other name he once held, and the reason I need to keep him away from the vampires.”

 

Luke’s eyes went wide as he shook John’s hand.

 

“Don’t worry. I don’t think the Night Children will join us tonight. They still haven’t made their minds.”

“Typical vampire shit.”

“I’m not very fond of vampires either. I have to deal with Raphael a lot, since I’m packmaster in New York.”

“But you were a Shadowhunter?”

“Sorry, proper introductions must be made. This is Luke Garroway, formerly known as Lucian Greymark.”

 

John’s eyes went cold at the introduction.

 

“I’ve heard that name.”

 

Valentine’s parabatai, a bond more complex than brotherhood shared by Shadowhunters, and former Lieutenant of the Circle.

 

“And for that, I’m sorry. I hope I can make amends someday, that is what I’m doing now. I’m a Downworlder now, not a Shadowhunter.”

“And Shadowhunters are not that bad either, brother.”

“Oh no, have you fallen in love with that little Shadowhunter of yours? Ragnor told me.”

“I’m going to _murder_ Raphael. I’m staking that tattletale as soon as I get my hands…”

 

Luke cleared his throat, and they started talking about the possibility of battle instead. They agreed to wait for the Clave’s decision. Luke was supposed to be back to the Accords Hall. The Shadowhunters agreed, and some kind of marking was supposed to take place, a marking with the angelic runes that were exclusive to Shadowhunters until this day. John laughed to himself. He never thought he would see the day when he would be paired with a Shadowhunter. As he walked into the Hall he remembered the day the first Accords were signed. They called on Magnus instead of him or Ragnor. He was always a little bit of a recluse, but Ragnor was offended. He remembered his indignation, and felt a tug at his heart. He wondered where Sherlock was now, and if he even remembered the offering he made before he left. He wouldn’t be able to reach him in Idris, no doubt about that. Oh, the Shadowhunter just kissed Magnus. In front of everyone. So glad his brother was having a good time. They started walking toward him, and John couldn’t help but smile.

 

“Remember what I said about your family? Well, it works both ways I think. Alec, this is my brother, John.”

“John? I thought you would be called Superstar or something like that.”

 

John actually giggled at the comment.

 

“Warlocks do love their fancy names. I’m John, formerly known as Johannes. It is my real name, has been for centuries.”

“You don’t look like a warlock. In fact, you look like a schoolteacher.”

 

John laughed harder now.

 

“You really have good taste in men, brother, I congratulate you.”

“Careful, Alec, he is the oldest warlock in this room, you know.”

“Oldest by one minute, but oldest nonetheless. Oh, let the boy be, young one. He is funny. I like him. Best wishes for you both.”

 

Just then a beautiful Shadowhunter woman approached them.

 

“Are you a warlock like Magnus? I was hoping to pair with one. My name is Jia Penhallow. Would you care to join me in this battle?”

 

So John paired with Jia, and he had a lot of fun, slicing demons into small pieces with his long sword. He practically fought the whole thing without using magic, but he felt as he loaned his strength and some of his protective magic to Jia. He was a master swordsman, but he also carried a gun, filled with magical bullets that carried ugly curses for demons. But he preferred his sword, because since the gun was his trademark, it was easier for vampires, who decided to join the fight mysteriously late, to identify him. He also had a wonderful crossbow, but that he reserved mostly for vampires who got on his nerves a long time ago. So, not the ideal weapon either.

 After the battle, people started talking about the new Accords, and they wanted either Harry or Magnus as a representative for the Council. It was John’s cue to leave, before someone realized who he was. He waved at his siblings, and conjured a portal outside of the Hall. It was forbidden, of course, and that made him want to do it, more than ever.

He was soon back in London. He checked his cell phone. Still not a word from Sherlock.

* * *

 Sherlock always thought alone was what protected him. He didn’t realize that didn’t include John Watson. He was tempted, many times, to text his friend. But it wasn’t safe, and he didn’t want John in danger, it didn’t matter that he offered to accompany him before. He couldn’t just risk John Watson. John was what kept him right, even as he had to kill, like he never had to before. He dismantled the network piece by piece, enjoying the puzzle, but mostly, he just wanted to go home. He had seen uglier things, real evil, both lurking in the shadows and in the light this time. Go back home to John, that became his mantra, his only positive thought as he fought through every possible obstacle and destroyed everything Moriarty stood for.

Clearly, it was better that John was away, back home right now. Because it gave him a reason to survive. Two years flew, and then came Serbia. He was really buggered now. Well, it was worth it if he managed to end this. At least John would be safe. As they whipped him and tortured him, he reached for his mind palace. He had a whole wing dedicated to John.

 

“So, you are back here again.”

 

John was sitting in his chair. This room always looked like 221B. Like home. Redbeard was curled in the rug, and John was petting his head. Oh, Redbeard. Was he dying now?

 

“I just wanted to say goodbye.”

“Well, _hello_ then, Sherlock.”

 

He came back to reality, and gave the torturers a piece of his mind. The man didn’t seem to like his deductions one bit. The moment the one whipping him left, his brother chose to reveal himself. Soon they were out of there, the last remaining bit of the spider’s network finally gone.

They were giving him a well needed shave and he was bickering with his brother as usual, already well dressed, when he decided to ask.

 

“And what about John Watson?”

“John?”

“Mmm. Have you seen him?”

 

Mycroft proceeded to respond with sarcasm, as always. Anthea handed Sherlock a folder, with pictures of John. John was wearing a hideous mustache. He touched the picture, a look of almost longing on his face.

 

“Well, we’ll have to get rid of that.”

“We?”

“He looks ancient. I can’t be seen wandering around with an old man.”

 

Mycroft laughed, really laughed and Sherlock looked at his brother with surprise.

 

“Old man!”

 

He kept laughing.

 

“Oh, don’t mind me, brother mine. _You are in for a treat_.”

“I think I’ll surprise John. He’ll be delighted!”

“You think so?”

“Hmmm. I’ll pop into Baker Street. Who knows – jump of a cake.”

“Mmm. I don’t know if surprise him is such a good idea. He thinks you are dead.”

“Dead? No, he knows I will come back.”

 

To him, Sherlock thought.

 

“But not even a text, or an email? After two years? He’s got on with his life.”

“What life? I’ve been away.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Where’s he going to be tonight?”

“How would I know?”

“You _always_ know.”

 

He gave Sherlock the address, talking about some wine or other, and Sherlock prepared himself to see his John again. _His_ John.

* * *

 

 John was pretty sure Sherlock was dead. Mycroft never answered his texts back, no doubt still wanting John as far away from Sherlock as possible. Not knowing anything for two years was bad enough for John, but he had stuff to distract him. A string of texts.

 

_‘Sebastian Morgenstern is alive. Just thought you needed to know. XOXOXO.’_

_‘Want me to come? – JW’_

_‘No, we have it covered.’_

 

Then, weeks after that,

_‘Magnus broke up with Angel boy. Give him a call? – H’_

 

He called his brother, and heard him complain about boundaries, and never dating another Shadowhunter again. He gave them a month before they were back together. If someone didn’t stake Camille soon enough, he would have to take matters in his own hands.

He received a visit from Magnus, and some of his new friends. He really liked the little red haired girl, he couldn’t really believe she was Valentine’s daughter and the sister of the monster who murdered his friend. He also liked the funny vamp who hanged around her, the one they called Daylighter. They wanted advice, he gave it, they left. Just another day in the life of John Watson.

 

_‘Magnus was abducted. - H’_

 

He started pacing, deciding, calling his sister multiple times. He waited two days, and he was about to portal himself to New York when he received the next one.

 

_‘Oh, don’t worry, he’s back. He saw dad by the way, he said hello. Magnus was not pleased. Back with Angel boy, though. Blood debt with former vampire, who is now just a mundane. - H’_

 

He received the phone call that same day.

 

“Brother, we need your help. I need your help. I need a spell that will let me go around in circles without angering father.”

“New York?”

“Please, portal into my apartment.”

 

He had a blood debt to pay. In the end, John couldn’t really give the boy his memory back, but he eased his way back into the Shadow World. That boy will become a Shadowhunter soon. And the Cold Peace, God, he hated the new agreements. The fairies will become a nuisance now. He wondered if he needed to contact the new leaders of the London Institute, Idris’s embassy in London. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

 

He took a job at a new surgery, flirted with the staff. He decided to grow a mustache, because his recent use of magic had left him looking a couple of years younger. He hoped his new addition aged him as much as Mrs. Hudson kept telling him it did. He still missed Sherlock every day, more than he missed Ragnor, and he wondered what that told about him.

 

_‘You have a nephew XOXOXO’_

 

His phone proceeded to fill with pictures of a really blue baby, dark blue, not light blue as his sister’s friend Catarina. He smiled to himself, and proceeded to hide the pictures in a secret folder in his phone.

 

_‘We have a beautiful nephew. You should come here and meet him – H’_

 

So he did. He took a portal that same day to Idris, to meet his nephew and join a big party that included many Shadowhunters and even a distrustful vampire girl who kept giving him the evil eye. Keep your head low, John. He met the new Inquisitor, the man in charge of delivering justice to Shadowhunters, who also happened to be his brother’s father-in-law, and he was even asked to join the council, which he gracefully declined. Simon, the former Daylighter turned Shadowhunter hugged him, and he thought he saw some spark of recognition in the boy’s eyes. Catarina Loss was there, and Harry flirted shamelessly, clearly _that_ was still going nowhere. Then Magnus gave him a coin and two pieces of paper, and John was speechless. Those belonged to Ragnor. He held his brother’s wrist in thanks, and the warlock just smiled back at him. Then someone passed him the baby, and the little guy was a charmer.

 

“Say hello to your uncle John, Max.”

 

Alec was smiling, and everyone was happy and clearly John was a very bad person, because he wanted out as soon as possible. So he gave his goodbyes, and hugged his nephew, lifted one last eyebrow Harry’s way and took a portal out of there.

 

“Just one thing brother.”

 

Magnus had a worried look on his face.

 

“You look younger. Like years younger.”

“Shit.”

 

The mustache he was starting to grow was still light, then. Magnus held a mirror to his face, and John exactly how right he was. He was starting to look early thirties. He panicked and started pleading with Magnus, when his brother raised his hand to him.

 

“Shush. You are speaking Gaelic. And not even the one I understand, you are speaking the Scottish Gaelic. Everything will be alright. Glamour yourself to look however you want.”

“It doesn’t work that way. Vampires can see though glamours.”

 

He was glad Lily, the vampire who was now the head of New York’s vampire clan, had already left.

 

“Let me, then.”

 

Magnus waved his fingers, and blue waves of magic, exactly like John and Harry’s, appeared.

 

“There. Now you just look like a gay pornstar from a low budget movie. We’ll call it the pornstache.”

 

So that was how John got his ugly mustache.

He had left everything in 221B exactly the way it was before Sherlock left. He cleaned up the biohazards, but he could still believe Sherlock was still there sometimes, when he saw the violin, the microscope and his dusty chemistry equipment. The days passed, and he kept going to work, trying to make sense of his boring life.

 

_‘Dinner tonight? My treat. – H.’_

_‘Sure, where?’_

_‘The Landmark. – H.’_

_‘See you there.’_

_‘Dress up a little, it’s fancy. It would balance that dreadful mustache. – H’_

 

John actually rolled his eyes at his phone.

 

He had stopped blogging after Sherlock left. He got ready for dinner with Harry, wearing his fancy clothes, the only ones he still owned. He reached the restaurant early, and he stood up when he saw his sister, wearing a beautiful blue dress that brought up the blue in his eyes.

 

“Blood of my blood.”

 

She used that old fashioned greeting among warlocks. Not many warlocks knew their blood relations, since most of them were produced by shape changing demons. The offspring of Greater Demons were few, and fewer less like John and Harry, twins and children of the same human mother. He kissed his sister’s hand and pulled her chair for her.

 

“Always the gentleman. So how is life this days?”

“You are back on the juice.”

“So what if I am?”

“It’s dangerous now, darling, with the Cold Peace. You know the new accords basically forbid interaction with the Fae, especially dallying in the courts. You’ll have Shadowhunters breathing on your neck in no time.”

“I wanted to tell you. Personally. The warlocks have spoken. They want you or me to become High Warlock of London. I decided to run things over with you first, to see if I should just take it.”

“Too many younglings now. I’m not interested.”

 

He took a sip of water, wondering where the hell was the waiter.

 

“I’ll leave you to order for me. I’m going to powder room really quick, to freshen up a bit.”

“Don’t eat any of it.”

“Screw you.”

“Bite me, sunshine.”

 

The moment Harry left, John could see the waiter approaching. His was lost in his own thoughts. High Warlock? Him? He retrieved the coin he always carried around now from his pocket, and started turning it around absentmindedly in his hand. For him, Ragnor Fell would always be the High Warlock of London. The waiter said something to him, with a heavy French accent, and John told him to get a bottle of wine, whatever he chose. Harry still wasn’t back when the waiter came back. He finally raised his eyes from the table, to find Sherlock Holmes, with a fake painted mustache, smiling at him.

 

“Interesting thing, a tuxedo. Lends distinction to friends, and anonymity to waiters.”

 

John’s eyes filled with tears, as he stumbled clumsily to his feet.

 

“Well, short version… Not dead.”

 

John started to get angry, and really, he has all the right to be angry. Two years, and not even an email to let him know he was still alive. Sherlock seems to finally catch up.

 

“Bit mean, springing it on you like that, I know. Could have given you a heart attack, probably still will. But in my defense, it was very funny.”

 

He laughed nervously, not meeting John’s eyes, which is great because he had a murderous look on his face. At that moment, Harry chose to appear.

 

“John, what is it? Who is this?”

 

Sherlock turned to look at her, and his face is suddenly filled with panic. John had seen that look before, once, when they were working the Baskerville case.

 

“Y-Your eyes...”

 

He stammered. Backing away from Harry, he bent over himself and started hyperventilating. John’s anger turned into concern.

 

“Harry, just go. I’ll get back to you later. Just leave us, ok?”

“Call me, okay? And if this is who I think it is, you have nerve showing your face here, young man. He thought you were dead.”

 

And as he heard her voice, Sherlock passed out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is back, and both of them start going back to their routine. John is elated, having his friend back and everything is strictly platonic, at least for now.
> 
> One of the DIs in Scotland Yard has a new case for them, one case were they will bite more than they can chew.

He woke up in his bedroom in 221B, bowtie loosened up. The sheets on the bed were different, and they smelled like John. He turned on the pillow, his pillow, catching the scent of John Watson in his bed, committing it to memory, to that special place in his mind palace reserved for all things John. Where was John? Surely he was the one who brought him back home. He heard voices coming from the sitting room. _Ughhh._ Mycroft was there.

 

“Didn’t you know I was going to be there with my sister? Did you know he could see through glamours?”

“Of course I knew. I thought your sister was a mundane or at least one like you. I’ve never been able to tell with you and neither has he, so I thought…”

“Well, you thought wrong. What do you want to do?”

“Reassure him. Tell him whatever you want.”

“The truth?”

“Anything but that. Too dangerous. The Cold Peace is bringing trouble, John. The east wind is coming soon.”

 

That was enough of it. He walked out of his bedroom and glared at his older brother.

 

“What are you both keeping from me?”

 

He barely remembered seeing John, and someone else. _Who was it?_ He needed to remember. Did he delete the moment in a flash of panic?

 

“Tell me.”

“All in good time, brother dear. About that terrorist cell? We need you on the case. Now.”

“Can you leave us alone for a bit Mycroft? I need to talk to Sherlock.”

“Suit yourself. I expect you will join him?”

“I’ll think about it.” 

 

Mycroft nodded, and left. Sherlock braced himself for all of John’s anger. Instead he got a hug. He winced a little, his wounds were still open. Unfortunately, it was enough for John to catch it.

 

“What is it Sherlock? Are you hurt?”

“I believe I sustained some minor injuries. Nothing to worry about, though.”

“Let me see them.”

“John.”

“Let me see them, _now_ , Sherlock.”

 

He practically hauled the detective to the sofa, and removed his suit jacket. He probably didn’t remove it before when he passed out because Mycroft came by.

 

“Sherlock, your shirt is stained with blood.”

“Minor injuries, John.”

“You were tortured?”

“Yes.”

 

John removed Sherlock’s shirt, and he could almost feel the anger.

 

“Are they...”

“Yes.”

“Excellent.”

 

He went into the bathroom, and brought his medicine kit.

 

“This one, the stitches opened. You can let me redo them. Or something even better. Do you still trust me?”

 

Sherlock nodded. He trusted the man with his life, even if he was keeping secrets from him. He tried in vain to remember the restaurant. John went upstairs to his old room, and he came back with a jar. The jar had something sticky in it, and Sherlock couldn’t really see what it was. John applied the contents to his back, and soon the pain was gone. In fact, he felt much better, almost as if he didn’t have any wounds left at all. Now the only thing he actually felt were John’s strong hands working on his back.

 

“Better?”

“Mmm, yes.”

“Good.”

“Are you really keeping that?”

 

He pointed as his own upper lip, not looking back at John. The man chuckled behind him.

 

“Yes. For a while, at least.”

 

A while. Sherlock could work with that. Because he wouldn’t kiss John Watson in that mustache.

 

“Your back feels tense.”

“Hmmm.”

“Let me fix that.”

 

John started massaging his neck, loosening the muscles. He could feel John now really working his back. All the knots, the two years apart, going away. This won’t do. He stood up, fast.

 

“Actually, I feel much better now. I need to start working on the case for Mycroft.”

“Can I help you?”

 

Sherlock smiled back at John, that smile that actually reached his eyes, the one that was only for him.

 

“Do you still want to?”

 

John smiled back at him. It was the crooked smile; the one Sherlock secretly loves.

 

“I do.”

 

They started researching, Sherlock pointed to a stack of newspapers and John started going through them, setting aside notes that he thought might help the case. That gave Sherlock plenty of time to look at John. After all this time, seeing the object of his affection became a need. He started by committing John’s face again to his mind palace. The dreadful mustache. The lines, wait, it seemed his eyes were unlined now. His hair was blonder, not even a hint of grey. The lines around his mouth were softer now too. If anything, John looked younger than before. Sherlock rose from his chair and crouched before John, actually staring at his face.

 

“Does staring at me help with the case?”

“You look different.”

“Two years do that.”

“You look younger.”

“Really? People say I look older with this thing.” He pointed at the mustache.

“No, that is not true. You look younger, and that merely ages you enough so that you can look about your age.”

 

John laughed, a nervous laugh that Sherlock didn’t recognize. _Something was clearly off_.

 

“Well, you are the first to notice.”

“You know I observe, John.”

 

He went back to his seat, and they kept looking at the files in silence. Soon Sherlock had the wall filled with pictures, of his ‘rats’, the people they were going to watch in the next couple of days. As he finished placing the last photo he could feel John standing next to him, his very presence anchoring him back in London. He was back, and John was here.

 

“What’s wrong Sherlock?”

“Nothing. It’s good to be home.”

 

That night as he was changing and brushing his teeth in the bathroom, Sherlock caught a glimpse at his back. He could almost swear there was nothing there, not even one wound.

* * *

 

After a little fighting and a lot of sleuthing, and John confessing some pretty awkward things in a disabled train car, they managed to stop the terrorist threat. Mycroft was pleased with him, so he left him alone for a while. John was still tiptoeing a little around him, and he could feel him looking at him more often. Could it be, that _finally_ John Watson wanted the same as he wanted? He could only hope. The days settled, and the cases piled, and still everything remained as platonic as it always was. Sherlock found himself craving John’s touch more every day, and John was clearly oblivious or wasn’t ready to face his own feelings yet. Each day passed with little touches between them, and Sherlock was about to explode with all his want for John Watson.

One of the DIs called them in with an interesting case, more like a 6, but, really, cases were really light those weeks. He usually hated working with anyone beside Lestrade, not that he would tell the man that, and now with the former DI’s promotion he found that he had to tolerate the other teams more often than not.

 

“They found enough blood in an alley for two bodies, and no bodies in sight. Care to have a look?”

“Really? That is barely a four, Sherlock. The bodies are probably stashed somewhere near the alley.”

“Bored. Might as well take this one. It will probably be just a couple of minutes.”

 

They took a cab to the crime scene, and instead of pulling away from him and gaping at the window like he usually did, John remained close to Sherlock.

 

“If you are really that bored, we could find other suitable ways to occupy your mind.”

 

John hand went to his knee, and Sherlock found himself staring at the hand and back at John all of a sudden.

 

“And what would you have in mind, doctor?”

“I can think of a few things. I can be rather creative sometimes.”

 

And at that precise moment he started rubbing Sherlock’s knee. The detective shouldn’t find that simple touch arousing, but he clearly did.

 

“Do tell me what you have in mind, John. I’m positively bored. This case is not promising and I find your proposal.. intriguing.”

 

John smirked back at him, that awful mustache obscuring his beautiful face as he leaned closer to Sherlock. The taller man found himself leaning to John, feeling gravity or some unseen force pulling them closer. He was sure John was about to kiss him when the cab stopped. The cabbie told them they had reached their destination and Sherlock cursed London traffic for not been heavier that day. The moment had clearly passed, but the detective grabbed John’s wrist before exiting the cab.

 

“I will definitely keep that in mind for later, John.”

 

John just smiled at him, and followed him out of the cab.

 

Sherlock could see the police officers inside the space surrounded with the yellow tape. What he could also see clearly were two bodies, almost ten feet apart from each other. Surely the Yard could see that their crime scene was complete? He huffed in annoyance.

 

“Inspector, clearly you can see this is not just blood that you are looking at. There are two bodies right there, you know.”

“Mr. Holmes, what the hell are you talking about?”

“The two bodies right there! You surely can’t be so blind as to miss them, they are right there.”

 

DI Hopkins looked around, clearly in panic. He almost stepped on one of the bodies, a boy, around nineteen, whole body covered in tattoos. Sherlock was sure he had seen such tattoos before somewhere. Maybe a gang? He looked back at John, who had a panicked look on his face. He barely registered as the man took out his phone and talked to someone. Who could John be calling now? The man almost ran into the policeman as he was making his way out of the tape, Sherlock was almost inside, about to leap into the examination of the first body, when John grabbed his elbow.

 

“Sherlock. We need to wait.”

“For what John? Clearly you can see the bodies, as well as I can.”

 

John pulled Sherlock down and whispered in his ear.

 

“I can, yes. _But nobody else can._ ”

 

Sherlock’s eyes went wide as he allowed John to pull him back. The DI was looking at both of them like he was going to have them committed to the madhouse.

 

“So, where are those famous bodies you were talking about Mr. Holmes?”

 

John was looking at him now, pleading, as a familiar black car pulled in and Mycroft Holmes stepped out of the vehicle.

 

“Inspector, lovely to see you again.”

“Mr. Holmes, I didn’t expect you here today.”

“Inspector, I'd rather be anywhere but here. I have to tell you to pull your team back. You can talk with Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade, he is taking care of this one.”

“Really? We haven’t even recovered the bodies yet. And I’m also with Homicide, why would my superior take this case from me? Have I done something wrong?”

“It’s well outside your division, Inspector. Just let my people do their thing.”

 

Hopkins called his people off, and soon two dark vans appeared. After they left, Sherlock could see men in dark suits carrying big cases entering the scene. Then, DCI Lestrade appeared, with a sour look on his face, glaring daggers as he walked to Mycroft. His former team, including that no-good Anderson and newly promoted DI Sally Donovan appeared on the scene. They walked straight to the bodies.

 

“Surely this is your cue to take my brother home, Dr. Watson?”

“Ah, yes, Sherlock, come with me.”

 

Sherlock was reluctant to leave, especially as he saw one of Mycroft’s men hunch near one of the two bodies, one that Anderson was approaching.

 

“But, John…”

 

John’s gaze locked with Sherlock’s. There was something else there, something Sherlock had missed before.

 

“Do you still trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Then please come with me.”

 

They walked silently for a couple of blocks before they managed to find a cab back home. This ride was uncomfortably silent, and Sherlock could barely remember their cab ride to the scene, with all the flirting and that kiss that never happened. John was brooding, his mind clearly somewhere else. John’s phone beeped, and Sherlock was staring at him as he looked at the screen and grabbed the bridge of his nose in annoyance.

 

“John?”

“Not here, Sherlock. Wait until we are back home. I promise I will explain everything. I don’t care if your brother tries to kill me.”

 

They couldn’t arrive back to Baker Street soon enough. It started raining, and Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder what was so special about those two bodies that made his brother appear in person and take control of the crime scene. He couldn’t even remember the second body well. _What was wrong with him?_ How could he let himself be rooted out of his own crime scene?

As John opened the door, the detective could see how tense the other man really was. His body was in his military stance, and he could see his hands shaking in anger? Anticipation? He didn’t know anymore. They reached their flat and John sat, collapsed really, on his chair.

 

“Sherlock, you could see the bodies? Both of them?”

“Yes, John, anyone could see them. They were right there.”

“That DI couldn’t see them. And you are not supposed to be able to see them either.”

 

And why Greg Lestrade and his team could see them, that was a question for another day.

 

“What do you mean by that, John? Clearly I saw them. I don’t know what’s wrong with New Scotland Yard these days, but the bodies were right there for them to see.”

“Sherlock, have you ever seen things that no one else could see?”

 

At this Sherlock’s eyes widened, and John could see that there was no way out of the conversation now. Of course, his mad, brilliant flatmate, who he now fancied himself to be in love with, _had the sight_. John sighed.

 

“Sherlock.”

“If you must know, yes. All the time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, I know this one is short, but I wrote this one a while ago, and wanted to cut it right there, sorry, but I'll update sooner than the week this time, since chapters 4-10 are done already. And also, I know I used the most used trope ever to exist in this fandom (Sherlock's back after Serbia) but at least in this case he is not getting any scars :D.  
> Hope you liked it, and you can visit me at tumblr, same url as my handle here if you want to chat.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John confronts Sherlock about the sight and starts explaining things about the Shadow World. Something is unfolding, something neither of them are really prepared to face. Introducing Sherlock to the Shadow World, and we get a little background on John's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own any characters both from Sherlock and TMI series, the former belongs to ACD, Mark Gatiss and Stephen Moffat and the latter to Cassandra Clare. I just make this work for fun, not profit.

Sherlock was waiting for the analysis from John. For the indication that he was mentally ill, that he was hallucinating and he needed to take medication. He knew this moment would come someday. It was the reason he never let anyone get close to him. But he knew he was in love with John Watson, and this was going to hurt. Because he could bear his mother and Mycroft thinking he was insane, but _John_ thinking that was going to be the death of him. John instead kept quiet for a couple of seconds, before a look of resolve passed before his face.

 

“Sherlock. Everything you’ve ever seen is real. Every single thing.”

Sherlock looked at John. The man clearly thought he wasn’t lying, he could tell the signs, he was basically a human lie detector. So, instead, now the two of them were delusional.

“I know you don’t believe me. But today I was there with you, and I could see the bodies. DI Hopkins and his team couldn’t see them. And surely you noticed how Mycroft and his team were examining them, clearly they could see them. So did Greg and his team, for that matter.”

“Mycroft told me once he couldn’t see it, John.”

“Mycroft was clearly lying, Sherlock. He asked me before to keep this from you, you remember the conversation from the day you came back?”

“The one you were having with my brother behind my back?”

“Yes. I always wondered why you didn’t pressure me for more information that day, or the next day, or even the next week. You are usually so insistent. Like when you were trying to find my middle name.”

“I got sidetracked, with the terrorist case and coming back.”

 

_Back to you, being back with you distracted me._

 

“And you never asked why you collapsed in the Landmark. Why Sherlock?”

“Are you saying that what happened in the Landmark is in some way related to the things I see?”

“Yes.”

“I know why I don’t remember it, then. It’s stored.”

“In your Mind Palace?”

“Yes, in a place I never, never visit.”

“You think you stored the conversation with Mycroft there too?”

“Probably. You know I wouldn’t have rested until I got answers.”

 

Sherlock laid back on the sofa and went to the tower in his mind palace. As he walked to the stairwell, he was careful to stay away from the door to the dungeon, where he could hear Jim Moriarty rattling his chains. He walked the long staircase and opened the door. He was back at the Landmark, John was about to yell at him or something, when this woman appeared. Sherlock looked at her, and really saw her this time. She was petite but wearing killer heels, slim, with long blond hair that curled at the tips. Her dress was dark blue and beautiful, really enhanced her figure. Then Sherlock remembered her face. Her nose, her mouth. She looked like John, but much younger, he would say early twenties or even late teens. The he caught her eyes. Her eyes were the same tone of blue as John’s, but instead of a regular round pupil like any normal human been, her eyes had the slit pupil of a cat. In fact, her eyes where those of a Persian cat. The memory frowned and spoke to him.

 

_“You have nerve showing your face here, young man. He thought you were dead.”_

 

John watched as Sherlock emerged from his Mind Palace shaking. God, he really remembered everything? Surely he had stashed the memory somewhere as a coping mechanism. He really wanted to murder Mycroft Holmes. Why did he keep the Shadow World away from Sherlock? If he had the sight (and he doesn’t doubt it now), why he didn’t explain things to his little brother? Helped him understand and protect him? Both Harry and him were fiercely protective of Magnus when they found him with the Silent Brothers, that obscure branch of Shadowhunters that specialized in knowledge. Later, they had drifted apart a little, mainly because of Ragnor. His brother didn’t approve of John ‘stringing him around’. Harry showed Magnus how to use (and abuse) magic and John showed him how to fight. He preferred fighting with magic, but no one will ever tell John that Magnus Bane wasn’t great with a longsword or any other weapon.

 

“Sherlock?”

“Your sister.”

“Yes.”

“That was Harry at the Landmark.”

“Yes.”

“Her _eyes_ , John.”

 

John sighed again. This wasn’t how he expected to spend his night. He wanted the case to be a four or less, so Sherlock would solve it in minutes, and then finally he could get into Sherlock Holmes’s pants.

 

“Do you believe me know?”

“How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth? In this case, I have to admit you are probably stating the truth. I have at least a thousand memories in that tower that attest to your veracity. So, please, John start explaining now.”

“You have always been able to see the Shadow World. The secret world, the world where ghosts, demons, vampires, werewolves and monsters exists. All the stories are real.”

“You are saying the supernatural exists, that every fairy tale is true?”

“Well, most of them. For example, Dracula was based on a true story.”

“Mmmm. What else can you tell me? What is the relationship you and your sister have with the Shadow World? Because she clearly is your sister, she has the same nose, but she looks so much younger.”

“Actually, she is my twin.”

“That’s impossible, she looks about twenty.”

“I’ve just told you that all the stories are real and you tell me that she can’t be my twin because she looks about twenty?”

 

Sherlock realized then how ridiculous that sounded.

 

“Tell me, John. Are you something other than human?”

“Yes, Sherlock. I’m a warlock, a half-breed. I’m the offspring of a demon and a human.”

“Demons?”

“Yes, demons are evil creatures from other dimensions, that come into this one to cause mayhem and havoc. There are many types of demons. Warlocks have a mark, something that identifies them as other than human. It could be very obvious, like horns or having an entirely different color of skin. Like the Wicked Witch of the West?”

 

That is what he used to call Ragnor, he remembered fondly.

 

“Sorry?”

“Forget about it, it’s a movie reference. Marks could be visible, and it depends on the mother if the warlock baby survives or not. It’s difficult, most of them are killed by their mothers when they are born or soon after. Sometimes it doesn’t happen, and as soon as the warlock grows up they can do magic.”

“Magic? You mean real spells and magic?”

“Yes. I saved you from the fall with magic, Sherlock.”

“You. _You_ saved _me_?”

“Yes, I couldn’t let you jump from that ledge. I needed to stop it.”

“I was going to die for you, John.”

 

John braces himself and touches Sherlock knee. He is not repulsed, he sees. He doesn’t flinch at contact with John. He had never really dated mundanes much, except that one time in the 1800s when a beautiful and kind mundane woman caught his eye. He abstained after that partly because of Ragnor, but mostly because it wasn’t worth the trouble, revealing himself and explaining everything to someone. Someone who would eventually die and leave him alone. Even after the contact lenses, he liked being alone or in the company of his own kind. He had enjoyed the company of some Shadowhunters in the old days, when his brother visited London, and he and his brother had a real fight once about a werewolf suitor, which they both wanted but Magnus got in the end. He liked the new generation of Shadowhunters from the New York Institute, especially little Clary Fairchild. In fact, John Watson was a real grinch sometimes. The silence spreads comfortably between them, and sooner rather than later, Sherlock’s hand is over the one he has on the detective’s knee.

 

“So, what you did with my wounds the day I came back from Serbia?”

“Magic.”

“Making me look like I was dead?”

“Magic.”

“The reason you look younger?”

“That is a little more complicated. When I stop using magic, I age. I age slower than humans, but I start aging. When you were away, I had to use my magic again. There was a war in the Shadow World, and I had to fight.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes went wide, and his grip on John’s hand was stronger.

 

“To think I didn’t contact you because I didn’t want you to be at risk. And you were fighting your own fights, and risking your life all the same.”

“I’m very hard to kill Sherlock. Warlocks generally are, but in my case, I’m what you could call a rare type of warlock.”

“Even in the Shadow World, you would have to be something else, something special. John Watson, you always surprise me. So, pray, tell me, what kind of warlock are you?”

 

The kind that wants to kiss you right now, thought John. But he guessed he had to give Sherlock all the information he could.

 

“There are many types of demons. Some of them are the Greater Demons, some are even more rare, like the ones who used to be angels before falling from heaven. Those demons include the Princes of Hell. My father is one of those demons. Most warlocks are the offspring of Eidolon demons, or shapeshifting demons, who trick a woman into thinking they are mating with their loved ones. The thing with Greater Demons is that some of them can still be very beautiful, even if they are rotten to the core. But they usually don’t leave their realms, so there aren’t many offspring of greater demons around. It’s a good bet to say that the most powerful warlocks in the world are the sons and daughters of the Great Evil Ones.”

“So, your sister is a very powerful warlock. So are you, and you started using your magic again, so you have stopped aging. In fact, I see your aging process is actually reversing itself. Do warlocks age until certain age?”

“Most of them do, in fact. My sister stopped aging when she was 21, in my case it varied, I usually look in my early thirties, but she looks younger. My brother, on the other hand…”

“You told me you didn’t have a brother, the day we met.”

“No, I told you Harry was short for Harriet, which is true. That is the name she is currently using.”

“Currently? She has changed her name?”

“Multiple times.”

 

Oh, God, he hadn’t told Sherlock. That he was immortal. That was it. That was the breaking point between warlocks and mundanes, and if the detective hadn’t run from him before, he will now.

 

“There is something else, Sherlock. Warlocks are immortal.”

 

The taller man took his hand from over John’s, and placed it on the side of his chair. John proceeded to retire the hand from his knee then. Sherlock looked back at John with a sort of longing now. John knew he would never have him now.

 

“How old are you really, John? Is that your real name?”

“I’m 1800 years old, give or take. I don’t really count them anymore. Harry doesn’t remember either, she only reminds me she is the younger sister every couple of hundred years when she needs a favor from me.”

 

Sherlock choked when John told him his real age. John was starting to feel regret and an emptiness that reminded him of finding Ragnor’s body. It was almost three years now, he needed to visit his old friend.

 

“John. John. Where were you? Usually I’m the one with the absentminded gaze. Please keep up. You were telling me about your brother?”

“My brother is something else. You would like him, I think. He is the youngest, my sister and me, well, we raised him from age 7. He is very complicated, but a charmer nonetheless. His name is Magnus.”

“Magnus? Sounds theatrical.”

“Says the guy named Sherlock. He was raised Pin Yin, that’s the name my sister gave him, so as soon as he had a say he changed his name.”

“Touché. But is John your real name?”

“My mother gave me the name Ioannes or Johannes, which currently translates to John. I’ve kept the name, I’ve gone by Johann and John most of my life. I’ve used Ianto also, for a long time.”

“And the Watson?”

“A modification from the name both me and Harry chose once, we were called the Sun Twins. She liked Watson, she spent a lot of her time in Scotland, at least a couple of hundred years, as did I. In the Shadow World, the ones who still know me, they know me as John Sun or John Watson. The ones who used to know me and want to kill me still used to know me as Johannes Van Helsing or Johann Sun, the twin.”

“The vampire hunter? You mentioned Dracula before. But if I remember the name was Abraham, no?”

“You read Dracula? I thought you would have deleted it. Well, artistic liberty from Mr. Stoker, but the name existed. Dracula was a modification of a name. The name of the high priest of the cult who first introduced vampirism into the world. They made a deal with a demon, and got infected with the vampire virus. I was a doctor in the Netherlands at the time, and I was intrigued. Then I got mad. Then I killed a bunch of vampires. Some of them escaped, and their spawn hate me. So I’ve kept my head low for a couple of centuries. The last time a vampire nest got an inkling of my location it was a bit not good. For the vampires, I mean.”

“You seem to really dislike vampires, John. I wonder why.”

“Easy. They were human once, and chose to live on as parasites. Forever. They are immortal too.”

“So, aside from warlocks, they are the only immortal beings in this Shadow World of yours?”

“No, angels, demons and fairies are immortal too. But vampires are the only immortal ones who were human once.”

“It doesn’t seem like a very good reason to dislike a whole race of beings.”

“Some vampires are all right. A friend of mine used to be close to a vampire, also my brother seems to like the vampires from his territory. But not me. I’ve never trusted a vampire. The only one I liked a little is not a vampire anymore.”

“Is he dead? Was he killed by a hunter?”

“No, he became a hunter himself. A Shadowhunter. And they don’t really kill vampires anymore. They have a truce.”

“And are you part of that truce? What is Shadowhunter?”

“Shadowhunters are part human and part angel. Basically, the opposites of warlocks. Their purpose is to slay demons and protect the mundanes, the regular human beings. They have laws, which are very complicated. They serve the Clave, that is their high government. They have their own country, but they have Institutes everywhere.”

“Institutes?”

“It’s like their embassy. They have them everywhere so they can control the demon plague. There is one right here in London.”

“Let me guess, abandoned church in Fleet street?”

“Dear God above Sherlock, have you ever _seen_ the Institute? It has the most potent glamours available. Your sight is clearly something else.”

“You keep telling me about my sight. I’ve seen the Institute. I’ve seen boys with tattoos in that precise building.”

“Those boys are the killing machines known as Shadowhunters.”

“I’ve seen them around sometimes too, in the tube, in the streets.”

“But they haven’t seen you, right?”

“Why is that important?”

“They tend to recruit humans with the sight. For their service.”

 

Sherlock actually scoffed at the comment.

 

“I serve no one, John.”

“I know, that’s the reason I know they haven’t heard of you. They would have reached to your parents when you were young, and trained you to serve some Shadowhunter family or other.”

“I really can’t think of Mycroft or Mummy letting me someone’s butler or chauffeur.”

“I know, but with Shadowhunters, sometimes you really don’t get a choice. Mmmm, I wonder if that’s the reason your brother kept the Shadow World from you. Maybe he serves a Shadowhunter family himself.”

“My brother serves the Queen, John. He _is_ the British Government.”

“I know, but the crime scene we saw today was clearly a Shadow World affair. And he had his paws all over that too. A Shadowhunter was dead, Sherlock, I saw the body and if I’m not mistaken the other body belonged to a Seelie Knight. Which means there’s a big shitload of things going on, because the Shadowhunters are not happy with the fairfolk right now. This could mean war. And I was just starting to get comfortable again.”

 

His phone beeped.

 

_‘Need to see you. Shit happened. – H’_

 

“And we might be getting a visitor soon.”

 

His phone beeped again.

 

_‘Sis called. You’ll be seeing your little brother soon. XOXOXO’_

 

“Scratch that, visitors.”

“By visitors I suppose you mean your siblings?”

“Yes, they will be arriving soon I think. Don’t be alarmed, Sherlock.”

“Please, John. I’m not some blushing damsel in distress that you need to protect. I want to meet your brother and sister properly. And I’m really interested if they will bring new information for the case.”

“The case which is no longer our concern. This is a Shadow World affair.”

“Since you are part of the Shadow World, it is your concern. And since it involves you, it involves me by default. Don’t keep anymore secrets from me, John.”

“I don’t really see how we could be of use.”

“What you really wanted to say is that you don’t see how I can be of use. But clearly I can use my science in this Shadow World of yours.”

“No. Too dangerous.”

“Is it your place to tell me what to do now, then?”

“Not really. But I’m not letting you out of my sight, and if that means being outside of this investigation and the Shadow World, so be it.”

 

Sherlock was glaring at him now. He was angry, and John could see why, but he was not letting him go against unknown forces of the Shadow World, even if it meant an angry detective sulking around the flat. Even if Sherlock kicked him out. At that precise moment, a portal appeared in their sitting room. Sherlock’s eyes widened, before setting in the usual mask John recognized as disguising his thoughts and feelings.

 

“Well, well, dear brother, you have company? I didn’t expect it, otherwise I would have used another mean of transportation. Scratch that. I would’ve appeared in your room instead. Good evening, sir. My name is Magnus Bane.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised an update midweek but real life got hectic, you can visit my Tumblr if you want to know what I mean. Just FYI I'm a terrible person, sorry, but I did post this short (again, short, I'm sorry, this one was already written this way) chapter.
> 
> Just a little background for people who are not in TMI, TID and TDA fandom:
> 
> Magnus Bane is the High Warlock of Brooklyn, and in this AU he is John and Harry's little brother. He is in relationship with a Shadowhunter from the New York Institute, whose name is Alec Lightwood. They adopted a warlock boy and live in domestic bliss. A gay canon couple is one of the things I adore from Cassandra Clare's books.
> 
> Ragnor Fell is the former High Warlock of London, now deceased (both canon and this AU), he was Magnus's best friend and in this AU John's former long term partner/romantic interest/friend.
> 
> Simon Lovelace is a former vampire now turned Shadowhunter who is the current boyfriend of Alec Lightwood's sister Isabelle, both of them are members of the New York Enclave (more about them in chapters to come)
> 
> Clary Fairchild/Fray/Morgenstern is the main character of the Mortal Instrument series, who is dating Jace Herondale, both of them are the leaders of the New York Enclave, and heads of the New York Institute.
> 
> Tessa Carstairs/Grey/Herondale is a warlock, born of a Shadowhunter (not marked) and a demon. She is the only known warlock to have offspring. Her current partner is the former silent brother Jem Carstairs.
> 
> More characters to be added, but each of them would get their own part in a note if they belong to Cassandra's World. I guess if you are reading this, you probably belong to the Sherlock fandom :D, so I'm not explaining them.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally get a glance at John's siblings and their relationships with him. Introducing the one and only Magnus Bane and High Warlock of London, Harriet Watson. Sherlock is fascinated with the Shadow World, especially by the figure of the Clave and the newly introduced Shadowhunters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still Sunday on my side of the globe, so this update is on time (just barely). I hope the ones who are still reading like it. Thanks again for reading! Comments and kudos make my day.

Sherlock was staring at the man in his sitting room, hardly believing what he was seeing. It seemed John’s little brother was a very fit, young, tall, handsome and clearly gay Asian man. He had spiked tangerine hair, and his hands were filled with rings. He was wearing red leather trousers and a black leather vest with no shirt on. Clearly oblivious of London weather. And his eyes. His eyes were orange yellow, with a cat slit, just like Harry’s had been. He was also wearing some kind of eye makeup and glitter. Sherlock stood up and shook his hand, and Magnus was suddenly checking him up. Clearly pleased with what he saw, because he smiled back at Sherlock and then started ranting to John.

 

“I was just going out on a date right now. We had finally got Isabelle on board for babysitting. Do you know how hard is to get reservations in some places in NYC? Now Alec is stuck with Max, and I’m probably never going to get laid again. I hope Harry has a good reason to summon me here, tonight of all nights.”

“Clearly your partner doesn’t mind staying home alone with the baby today. He is the motherly type, if I remember correctly. How is my beloved nephew?”

“Well, we just got past the terrible twos. Now we’re well into the tumultuous threes. He’s throwing sparks at Chairman Meow now.”

“Poor cat. I remembered you used to terrorize the horses.”

“And he bites people now, sometimes.”

“You used to bite people too, you know, and you were ten, and not three, if I remember correctly.”

“I used to bite you. I wanted to be scary as a vampire, remember?”

“And you were just cute.”

 

John’s relationship with his little brother seemed very different than the one he had with Mycroft. He couldn’t really believe this flamboyant young man (which probably was packing a few centuries on him, actually) was even related to John.

 

“So this is your little brother?”

“Little for him, I can assure you I’m older than I look. And not little in size, and that, young man, is a family trait.”

 

He was smirking, clearly the joke wasn’t related to John’s height. He actually made Sherlock blush a little.

 

“Yes, this is Magnus, the Bane of my life.”

“You think you are so funny, old man. You can’t live without me.”

“We’ve spent several centuries without speaking to one another, young one.”

“Because you got ever so cross at me for speaking my mind. And for being more handsome and stealing Woolsey from your claws.”

“Woolsey?”

“An old… friend of ours, yes, let’s say friend Sherlock. Woolsey was fine in my claws, as I recall. Fine until you decided to leave your VVT and take him from me.”

“I only did it because Ragnor asked me to, you know. Then, well, I loved Woolsey. He was a hoot.”

“VVT? Ragnor?”

“That’s John’s pet name for my ex-girlfriend. Victorian Vampire Trash. Ragnor Fell was a warlock… friend… yes, let’s go with friend again, well at least he was my friend. He passed away three years ago.”

“I thought warlocks were immortal”

“Yes, we are, but that doesn’t mean some things can’t kill us.”

 

Magnus sighed, his face pained with memories, before he addressed his brother again.

 

“If I recall correctly you started seeing Anna and the mundane soon after. And you didn’t forgive me, even when dear Anna pleaded with you.”

“Anna and me were just friends, thank you very much. And I forgave you. I just didn’t tell you for a couple of years.”

“I notice you are not denying the mundane. Yes, you forgave me, after you went MIA in World War II and I had to go and look for you! Then you bailed again on me and started exploring Nepal with Tessa!”

“Anna? Tessa?”

“Shadowhunter, warlock, old friends. Anna died a long time ago, Tessa is still around, she is married to a former…well, a special kind of Shadowhunter.”

“So warlocks and Shadowhunters can get married?”

“Not legally in their society, no. Trust me, I know.”

“Is your partner a Shadowhunter? You probably had trouble because he is male, obviously.”

“My, my, this one is inquisitive. Your taste is improving, brother, I thought it would never…”

“Shut. Up. Shut your bloody trap…”

“Boys. Don’t start.”

 

Sherlock glanced to the kitchen, where Harry Watson, or whatever she called herself was standing. She was wearing a black leather jacket, and matching black leather trousers, with a pink cropped tank top. Clearly John didn’t share his siblings taste for clothes. He glanced back at the baggy oatmeal jumper and plain trousers he was currently wearing. Maybe he wore them to make the impression he was older, he suspected that was the reason for the mustache too. Harry went straight to Magnus and wrapped her arms around the taller man’s neck. She gave him a kiss on every cheek.

 

“ _Sanguis ex sanguine meo._ ”

“And hello to you too, my shortcake. What’s the matter? I hope it’s very important because I was going to take Alexander to dinner and I was planning on getting lucky today.”

 

Harry giggled, and Sherlock noticed it was very much alike John’s own giggle.

 

“Not too much going on in your bed with a toddler in the house?”

“Not as much as I want, no.”

 

She then looked at John, who was still sitting in his chair. She frowned, and the man sighed before standing up and scooping her out of the floor, grabbing her legs so fast that Sherlock couldn’t really catch the movement. He had her on his arms like a blushing bride, giggling as he gave her a kiss to her forehead.

 

“Always the knight in shining armor, Johann my darling. Put me down this instant, I’m not 1000 years old anymore.”

“And you are not sober to begin with. Really, Harry, today of all days you had to go party at the Seelie Court? You’ll probably dance in the fairy revels for the rest of your immortal life if you are not careful.”

“I’m always careful, and I wouldn’t possess the information I have now if I wasn’t friendly with our forgotten brethren.”

 

She made a fuss of straightening her perfect outfit, and proceeded to address Sherlock, extending her hand.

 

“Harry Watson, or Seraphina Sun. I’m happy to finally meet you properly, Sherlock Holmes. I really was surprised you could see through my glamours. They are really strong, and surely your sight is a terrible gift you bear. He is not a Downworlder like us, I assume?”

“No, I think he is just a mundane with the sight.”

“Mmm, I think something else. I can’t really put my finger on it, John.”

 

Magnus was circling Sherlock now, like a bird intent on catching his prey.

 

“But I’ve seen those eyes before.”

“And what do you think I am, Mr. Bane?”

“Pleaaase, call me Magnus, Magnus the Magnificent.”

“Magnus the Magnificent Arsehole.”

“Stop trying to be funny, old man, it doesn’t suit you. Also, another thing that doesn’t suit you.”

 

He waved his hand, blue waves coming out of his fingers, and John’s mustache was gone.

 

“There. Away with the pornstache. At least while around your family.”

 

Sherlock actually gaped. John looked at least ten years younger. He looked younger than Sherlock now, early thirties or late twenties. John looked possibly delicious and Sherlock just wanted to kick everyone out of the flat and have his way with his part demonic flatmate. Who would’ve guessed he had a thing for blond and hot twenty going on thirty somethings? Well, he definitely had a thing for hot short blond warlocks, apparently.

 

“See? Your friend likes it. Also, that horrid jumper has to go away.”

 

He flicked his hand again, and John was now wearing an outfit similar to Harry’s, black leather trousers and jacket, with a tight white T-shirt that showed his muscles in favorable light.

 

“Merry Christmas from Alexander, Max and me.”

 

Clearly this was Sherlock’s Christmas present, not John’s. He had to keep himself from jumping at the warlock and attacking him. John looked irritated, to say the least, as he glanced at his new outfit.

 

“What, are we in a band or something? I’m not singing your back up tunes. I think it was your singing that got you banned from Peru, if I recall correctly. And Christmas was three months ago.”

“No, no, I played the charango in Peru, I never sang. And that wasn’t what got me banned. It was something Ragnor did, I believe. I truly never knew. A pity. They really should thank me; those Nazca lines didn’t do themselves.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt the trip down memory lane again, but we have pressing matters to attend to. As High Warlock of London, it’s my business to involve myself with matters of the Downworld. One of the high ranking knights of the Seelie court was murdered today. The Seelie Queen is still in hiding and the Unseelie King suspects a Shadowhunter murdered the knight. We don’t know if the Shadowhunter had a cause to attack, but the King seems to think the quarrel came unprovoked. Apparently a vampire was witness to the attack, and said the boy leapt at the fairy with for no reason at all.”

“Remember, sunshine, that the Cold Peace agreements say that the fairies can’t leave their realm now. If the fairy was outside the boundaries of Fairie, and the Shadowhunter saw him, that would have been reason enough for him to attack.”

“But that is the thing. The fairy in question was well into Fairie when the attack happened.”

“Impossible.”

“Sorry, John, do you know something I don’t?”

“Sherlock and me were called to a mundane crime scene today. It turned out to be the final resting place of said Shadowhunter and fairy knight.”

“But the vampire said that he saw the quarrel as he was leaving the revels, well inside of Fairie.”

“Clearly the vamp is lying. Never trust a vamp, I’ve said it before.”

“Again with the vamphobia. Are you ever going to let that go, John? You seemed fine with Simon.”

“Simon was turned against his will, and he never indulged in drinking from humans, at least not by choice, only by accident. He was a good boy who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“As much as I like Simon, he was a vampire, John, like any other vampire, he craved blood and he once attacked and killed a pre-teen girl. You surely remember that. And Raphael…”

“Raphael was a lying and manipulative piece of shit, even if you cared for him.”

“Ragnor cared for him.”

“Yes, he did. Sometimes Ragnor was manipulative too, as you know. And that doesn’t change my mind about vampires in general. The fact is that I saw the fairy and the Shadowhunter dead in a place that clearly wasn’t Fairie. In a middle of an alley in London it’s clearly not Fairie. I’ve been to the Seelie and Unseelie courts a number of times, and it doesn’t look anything like that dirty alleyway were we saw those bodies. Sherlock saw them too.”

“Well, I don’t need to tell you the gravity of this situation. We need to solve this before the Clave starts a war here in London against the fairies. I spoke to the Head of the Shadowhunter Institute. I don’t think you’ve met him. He is the one who took over after Imogen Herondale left to become inquisitor. He was their ward, and also Stephen’s parabatai.”

“Don’t mention Stephen Herondale’s name in my presence, Harry. I’m still horrified with the things he did. He stained Tessa’s bloodline.”

“Blah, blah, blah. I didn’t know Stephen even had a parabatai. I think Jace would like to meet him, he would be curious to know his father’s brother in arms. Tessa says hi by the way, so does Jem, I saw them recently. Why do you carry around so many grudges? Geez, you have to let it go one of these days.”

“Geez? What are you? 100 again?”

“You know exactly how old I am, and I know exactly how old you are, and it is time that you start forgiving and forgetting before you wither away. You are 1863 years old, and you still have a lot of life ahead of you. So please, get out of that shell, push your prejudices aside and help your sister with this mess.”

 

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose again. Sherlock had never heard anyone address John like that, anyone but him, that is. Clearly, they were more like Mycroft and him than he thought before.

 

“Boys, I mean it, stop it. _Leigh seachad_ , Ianto.”

“Sorry. Magnus, I’m sorry, young one. I’m not used to the Shadow World anymore. I was happier when all I had to think about was the mundane crime going around in London.”

“I’m sorry too. I’m still a little prickly because I missed my date.”

“Well, since that is sorted, we need to act before this get out of hands. Your mundane friend, with his knowledge of London and his sight, could really be useful. We should contact Gideon as soon as possible.”

 

Sherlock snorted in his seat. Harry looked at him, surprise in her eyes.

 

“Pray, what’s funny Sherlock?”

“Gideon. Ugly name.”

“Common Shadowhunter name. Not as common as Jonathan, but still. They use a lot of old Hebrew names, or, depending on the site of the Institute or if the family seat is in Idris or not, culturally relevant names. Gideon, the head of the London Institute, was raised here. He used to be the Instructor, both weapons, history and languages. He is a hell of a fighter, but he prefers to use his mind, rare thing in a Shadowhunter. The thing is, he is not a well-liked member of the Clave.”

“Oh, is he the one with the long term liaison with a fairy? And a male fairy if I remember correctly?”

“Yes, dear Magnus, I see that you are up to date with all your gossip. And not any fairy, I must add, Riegan.”

 

It was John’s turn to look surprised and then snicker.

 

“Riegan? That brat? The same Riegan that I know?”

“The one who breathes and recites. The one and only fairy prince.”

 

John started giggling now.

 

“I can’t imagine His Royal Stiffness hanging around Shadowhunters. He’s always been so, well, so all honor and the wonders of Fairie. And the members of the Unseelie court have always been so unwelcoming of outsiders.”

“Do you remember that time he challenged you to a sword fight?”

“That I gracefully declined, if you remember. I didn’t want to go down in history as the one who ridiculed the Unseelie Prince.”

“The eldest and heir, if his father ever dies or steps down. His brother Kieran, the youngest, was banished to the Hunt.”

 

Magnus addressed Sherlock then.

 

“You see, darling boy, the Shadowhunters really frown upon relationships among people of the same sex, relationships with mundanes or Downworlders and basically any relationship that won’t add a healthy Shadowhunter baby to the mix.”

“I’m starting to see a resemblance between those Shadowhunters and a fascist regime. But you have a toddler in the house, so I assume he must be yours, I don’t think someone would leave a toddler around you that much if it wasn’t.”

 

Magnus laughed at this, hard.

 

“Well, most Shadowhunters are uptight and rigid. Yes, the toddler in question is mine, and Alec’s. Want to see a pic?”

 

He pulled out a phone and leaned next to Sherlock, showing him pictures of his baby boy.

 

“Your baby is blue.”

“Yes, he is.”

“I’m not much for stating the obvious, but I’m unused to people knowing the things I can see are true. He looks very happy and healthy.”

 

Magnus laughed again.

 

“Thank you, that’s what we aim for.”

 

John frowned, remembering his only Shadowhunter friend, crossdressing, cheroot smoking Anna Lightwood. And he guessed he could add Alec, Clary and Simon to his list of Shadowhunter acquaintances. He fought along Jia Penhallow. He used to like James Herondale a long time ago, Ragnor’s little protégé.

 

“As I was saying, most Shadowhunters are boring, and stiff. Others are just great in bed.”

“Is that a respectful way of speaking of your life partner and father of your child in front of a virtual stranger?”

“What, him? If he one day gets the honor of meeting Alexander Lightwood, it would do him good knowing he is excellent in bed and all mine.”

 

Magnus smirked back at his sister.

 

“Well, are you done with the useless facts, little brother? We need to see this Gideon about a dead Shadowhunter and fairy.”

“Gideon will murder you if you take a mundane to the Institute.”

“Oh, no, I think Gideon expects to see me there tonight.”

“I’m sorry?”

 

John turned to Sherlock, a surprised look on his face, but Sherlock just caught his gaze, giving him his best ‘you know you trust my judgement’ look. He then sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose once again before addressing his sister.

 

“You heard him. He knows something we don’t know, and he is going to be smug and not tell us anything. We should just follow his lead, I do it all the time.”

“I don’t want to be the one who breaks the Accords, beloved one, I’m the High Warlock of London. I have to keep peace and order.”

“Like the peace and order of the Fairy Revels?”

“Oh, bite me.”

“You’ll introduce me, and I’m bringing Sherlock, so I’ll be the one who is breaking the Accords.”

“You trust this man that much?”

“I do, yes.”

 

Harry looked at Sherlock then, trying to grasp what she missed before. She soon had a resigned look.

 

“Well, if you must. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see that you are helping me, once he knows who you are. You are aware that your secret life in London stops right now?”

“I’m sure I can make some arrangement with the Shadowhunter so that they’ll leave me alone after this.”

“Well, you, maybe. But what about Sherlock? You know you are risking him. If the Shadowhunters find him interesting…”

“I’m aware of the risks, John told me how they treat mundanes with the sight. I’m sure I can handle it. In fact, I’m sure the Shadowhunters are already bothering me day to day.”

 

John looked at him in surprise, and Sherlock shrugged.

 

“On your heads be it, then. We will be meeting him.”

 

She fiddled with her phone for a second.

 

“At nine.”

“Do you have something I can read on Shadowhunters while we wait?”

 

John went upstairs to his room and brought Sherlock an old book.

 

“This is the Shadowhunter Codex. It’s basically their rules. Be careful with that copy.”

 

Sherlock opened the book and read the dedication on the inside.

_For my beloved warlock warrior, as he leaves for war. I hope you find amusing the information in this book, and that you remember me._

_Your Anna._

_August 4 th, 1914_

 

“The new one has modifications, let me.”

 

Magnus waved his hand, and the book was suddenly heavier.

 

“I added some pages.”

 

Sherlock started to read, as the warlocks started talking strategy while the hours went by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation from latin:  
> Sanguis ex sanguine meo. Blood of my blood.
> 
> Translation from Gaelic:  
> Leigh seachad. Basically stop it.
> 
> Mortal Instruments characters  
> Woolsey Scott: Werewolf, alive on Victorian times, first Praetor of the Praetor Lupus, an organization that protects newly born Downworlders, especially werewolves, so that they don't attack on their first changes with the moon and bite people. They also cater to newborn vampires sometimes. In this story he had a fling with John, before turning his attention towards his little brother Magnus.  
> Anna Lightwood: Shadowhunter, alive on Victorian times. She was special, a crossdresser, preferred to dress like a male and was basically a rebel in Victorian Society. She was a good friend of John's in this story, not in a relationship with him because in my mind Anna is a lesbian, in canon Cassandra has not revealed this fact yet.  
> James Herondale: Son of Will Herondale and Tessa Grey/Herondale/Carstairs, alive on Victorian times. He was half warlock, half Shadowhunter and he had the power of walking through shadows. He was a student at the Shadowhunter Academy when Ragnor Fell was a teacher and he took a particular interest in him, though he didn't actually became a full warlock, basically staying a Shadowhunter.  
> Stephen Herondale: Father of Jace Herondale, notable member of the Circle after Luke Garroway was vanished from it he became Valentine Morgenstern's right hand man. He was killed on battle, and his wife committed suicide short after his death. He was a descendant of Tessa Herondale.  
> Let me know in the comments if you guys want more background.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are introduced to the London Shadowhunter Institute and their current leader, who recruits them for the case of the murdered Shadowhunter and Fairy. Sherlock's exceptional sight is finally explained as new secrets are revealed. They will try and solve the murders before the Clave gets involved, hopefully with the aid of the London Werewolf Pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update! I hope you all like it, right on schedule because it's still Sunday in this corner of the world. Not betaed, not britpicked. Just me having fun.

They reached the Institute soon enough, the regal building daring them to go in, right in the middle of Fleet Street. Sherlock had finished the book in less than an hour, and then started pestering Magnus and John with questions about Shadowhunters. John guessed one of the rooms in the Mind Palace just started filling with information about the Shadow World, but he was a little worried about the detective’s interest in Shadowhunters. Because they were secretive, they were stern and took a liking for people with the sight. A liking that could result in Sherlock getting killed serving the Clave. Which was the last thing in the world that John wanted. As soon as they crossed the gates, Sherlock saw a girl and a pretty buff boy talking among themselves in the cemetery, laughing. Pretty sure they were ghosts. He wanted to ask John, because he felt elated being able to finally share the things he saw with someone.

 

“John. Two ghosts over there.”

 

John took a turn for the cemetery.

 

“I don’t see them, Sherlock, but usually ghosts choose who they reveal themselves too. Or maybe your sight is just extraordinary, because they aren’t approaching you or anything, right?”

“No, they are just right there, talking among themselves.”

“Maybe with a brain like yours, you get enhanced sight or something. I haven’t done any proper research on the subject. Magnus, do you know anything about ghosts of the London Institute?”

“Oh, dear, you mean the Lovelaces. Are you seeing them now? They usually only show themselves when the Institute is in danger. Protectors of the London Institute, both of them.”

“Yes, I can see them, but I think everything is safe. I’m usually able to see ghosts.”

“Those aren’t regular ghosts. They are Shadowhunter ghosts.”

“So?”

“Mmmm. Now I’m positive Gideon is expecting you, as you said. Shall we?”

 

As they reached the door, John started getting nervous. This is it. If he revealed himself to the head of the Institute, his days of hiding in London were over. He closes his fist, clenching and unclenching his hand. Magnus grabbed his shoulders then.

 

“Don’t worry. We are warlock royalty, my dear brother. Everything will be fine.”

 

Then Magnus lowered himself to speak directly at John’s ear.

 

“We’ll protect your boy toy if it comes to that.”

 

And John smacked him in the back of his head.

 

“Ow, careful old man, you’ll ruin the hair.”

“But thanks. The intention is what counts, right?”

 

Magnus kissed his brother’s temple.

 

“And the road to hell is paved with them, if I recall.”

 

They knocked the door, and a middle aged man opened the door, looking at all of them in worry. He seemed to be the butler, graced with the sight no doubt, at he glanced at the warlocks and at the ‘mundanes’, because even with his current attire, John’s warlock mark wasn’t visible with his contact lenses. He kept looking at Harry, who he clearly knew.

 

“Master Gideon is in the study. Follow me.”

 

They crossed the door, and Sherlock gathered all the information we could from just a glance. He knew he had to be right. When he read some of the added pages and recognized a name, he was sure about coming here. He needed answers, and this was the place to get them. And, surely, he was positively smug when they opened the door to the studio and sitting in the desk was none other than Mycroft Holmes. John looked like he could use an orange blanket, and the other two were a little alarmed by his face alone.  Mycroft’s eyes left the book he was studying, and a look of annoyance marked his face as Sherlock told the rest of the group.

 

“Magnus, as you don’t know the Head of the Institute yet, allow me to introduce my brother, Mycroft Gideon Holmes, or Verlac, as he surely calls himself in the Shadow World.”

 

Magnus laughed at this.

 

“I guessed you were a Shadowhunter since the door. But you don’t have any marks.”

“That’s because I’m not a Shadowhunter. I’m a descendant of a Shadowhunter family, but I didn’t receive training and don’t bear marks. So I don’t own allegiance to Clave or Council. And for that, Gideon, I thank you.”

 

Mycroft looked positively flabbergasted at the sudden civility from Sherlock, and he blinked many times at the actual thanks.

 

“So you understand, brother? You understand why I’ve done all that I’ve done?”

“Yes, to protect me, keeping me away from serving the tyrannical Clave. Allowing me to keep my life, to love whoever I wanted, without the scrutiny of Shadowhunters in my life. When did they got to you?”

“Eleven. Instead of going away to school, I was sent here. Then, to the Shadowhunter Academy. It wasn’t all bad. But Mummy and me, we knew this wasn’t the life for you. So when I was of age, and you were about to turn eleven, I struck a deal with the Clave. To spare you _them_ even asking. They would have starting asking at a younger age, but we pretended that you had mental problems and didn’t have the sight, for your sake. I couldn’t come back to visit, you see. Even if the Herondales were a little more understanding than the rest of the Clave.”

“That was the reason you stayed out of touch all those years? I thought you hated me, and resented you for that.”

“It wasn’t safe to be near you until I was secured a good position, both in this world and in mundane world. I’ve convinced the Clave that my involvement in mundane affairs is a necessary evil, to ensure the protection of this country. Luckily, the Enclave has always supported me. Most of the Shadowhunters in this area are either very young, or old enough that they remember me as a little boy. Some of them I’ve trained myself.”

“Like Anthea. I notice she never shows her skin, and neither do you, brother.”

 

Mycroft proceeded to shed his gloves, revealing the voyance rune on his right hand, followed his suit jacket and then he undid his expensive cufflinks and very posh shirt, revealing heavily marked skin underneath, filled with permanent marks and white scars where temporal marks had been drawn time after time.

 

“Also, the reason you always choose dark suits or dark colored shirts if you are wearing only a shirt, which is never.”

“Again correct, little brother.”

“Who was it, My? Who got stripped from his marks?”

“Good job. Grand-père.”

“Really? So close? I thought it was further away in the family tree. No wonder the bullet to the head.”

“Yes, so sad. And when Mummy was five, they started visiting the house. Asking her to go away with them.”

“She said no every single time, right?”

“Yes, she did. And I did the same, until I was eleven. That was the day the Shadowhunter who came said he will try his luck with you next year.”

“So you said, don’t ask him, I’ll go with you, correct?”

“My, my, you are in excellent form today Sherlock. Correct again.”

“Even when you couldn’t visit Mummy and Father again. That was… that was good. What you did.”

 

Mycroft waved his thanks away. It was John’s turn to talk now.

 

“Amazing. You got all that how, Sherlock? Because you said he would be expecting you even before you read the Codex.”

“When Harry said his name. I simply knew. And I confirmed it when I saw that my mother’s maiden name was a common Shadowhunter family name, originally from France, as my mother’s family.”

“That’s why you laughed.”

“That and because it really is an ugly name.”

“You are one to talk, William Sherlock Scott Holmes-Verlac.”

“I shed the Verlac as soon as I went to school. The name was a handful itself, without adding two surnames to the mix, and a French one, to the patriots’ dismay. Never trust the French.”

“And now we have the dear Dr. Watson. Or should I call you Dr. Van Helsing?”

“Only if you want me dead, Mycroft.”

 

Which the man maybe did, who knew?

 

“I realized who you were as soon as I met your dear sister here. When she took the post and finally agreed to meet with me, it was obvious. My brother, living with one of the Sun twins. Talk about twisted fate. I’ve been protecting him from the Clave my whole life, shielding him from the Shadow World. But he goes and falls for one of the oldest warlocks alive in the world, a man who is known to be a recluse and not very nice. A bit of a hermit. People talked, you see. Even other warlocks. They said you had gone crazy with age.”

 

John tried to maintain his composure as Sherlock didn’t deny the ‘falling for’ part. _He did try to fall for him, once, before he stopped him_.

 

“Talk? People do little else. So you think I’m crazy?”

“No, I maintain my previous assessment of you. You have been a warrior all your long life. You missed the battlefield. You found a new one with my brother. I consider myself more a thinker than a warrior, but I’ve seen my share of battles.”

“You fought against the original Circle.”

“Yes. Good to finally meet you, Magnus Bane. You come with great references from the lovely Theresa Gray. Or Theresa Carstairs, as she goes by now. You are John’s brother too? Because the warlock mark...”

“Is identical, yes. About Tessa and Jem. Don’t believe a thing they say. I suppose you’ve seen Jem too?”

“Yes, they passed by. Theresa doesn’t like to linger. But I needed some assistance. And she always comes if the London Institute calls. After all, this was her family home.”

“Well, this is a surprising turn of events Gideon, but you already know what we are doing here.”

“Yes, I could use your help. And quickly. I want to delay involving the Clave as much as I can. But the boy was a visitor, staying in the Institute for a year. Jonathan Cartwright. His girlfriend is distraught. She told me she wanted to call some friends from the Academy to help, and I allowed it. They will arrive tomorrow. I’ve told her I will do my own investigation, and would get the Clave involved if I don’t find the culprit soon. She seemed to agree to wait, as long as she could be a part of the investigation with her friends.”

 

Magnus shook his head.

 

“I knew the boy. Is Marisol here too? I thought they were going to spend a year in the Institute in Spain.”

“They did. They chose to stay away for a second year. In fact, they wanted to join the London Enclave. I had them here at the Institute while they were looking for a suitable residence.”

“So, we are expecting company then, probably people I know. How many Shadowhunters do you expect tomorrow?”

“Four.”

“Ah, so my sister in law is coming to town. You are in for a treat.”

“If she is like her mother, I’m afraid we won’t see eye to eye. Maryse and me, we’ve loathed each other for ages.”

“She is like Maryse in a good way. And no doubt your dealings with her limited to when she was a member of the Circle. Maryse has changed a lot, through the years.”

 

Magnus looked like his memories were rather unpleasant too.

 

“I was speaking with members of both the Seelie and Unseelie court. It seems a vampire placed himself as a witness of the struggle. He said the boy attacked the fairy unprovoked and well inside the realm of Fairie. These two here said the scene proves otherwise. I wonder if you would let them have a look, both at the bodies and the actual scene.”

 

Mycroft looked at Sherlock now.

 

“Do you really want to get involved?”

“I do, you know I can be of use to you in this. That way you won’t have to do the legwork yourself, dear brother. I guess you could ask your precious Shadowhunters to do the sleuthing. But they won’t be as good a me.”

“Be my guest, then. But you’ll probably have to include them tomorrow, at least the visitors. So you have tonight to work the case on your own with your lovely company.”

 

This civility from Sherlock to Mycroft was starting to unnerve John a little. He preferred the banter the brothers usually had. And John suddenly remembered something.

 

“Mycroft. What was Greg Lestrade doing at the scene today? With all his team? Surely this was a matter for the Shadow World.”

“You noticed, kudos to you, Dr. Watson. Gregory Lestrade is, unfortunately, part of the Shadow World.”

“Greg, a Shadowhunter?”

 

Mycroft scoffed, and his glare could be interpreted as a no.

 

“Perish the thought. Gregory Lestrade is the alfa and packmaster of the London Werewolf pack. And the current head of the Praetor Lupus.”

 

Harry looked at John, clearly surprised he didn’t know that.

 

“You know Greg? He is a good man. Or dog. And an excellent ally. Why he was shacking up with James, nobody knows. He became the alfa after he passed in the struggle against Sebastian.”

“I didn’t know James passed. The last of the Scotts.”

 

Magnus looked positively sad at the thought. John remembered Woolsey Scott, the werewolf who started the Praetor Lupus, the renowned institution that took care of newly converted werewolves and vampires and eased their ways into the Downworld society. The lover which he and his brother shared and fought between each other for.

 

“Not really. His daughter lives.”

 

At that, Mycroft’s eyes had a strange gleam in their eyes. Interesting, John thought, the so called Iceman had feelings for someone other than immediate family.

 

“I actually need to talk to him, and would appreciate if you set a meeting. He has been avoiding me. I don’t know why.”

“Really, Seraphina. Tell me more. Do you honestly don’t know why?”

“I don’t appreciate your tone, Gideon.”

“Suit yourself. I will call him for you, indeed.”

 

Mycroft grabbed his mobile from the table, and placed a call, as he dressed himself back, rearranging his sleeves, jacket and gloves. His eyes roamed over some books on his table as he patiently waited for the other man to answer the phone. He winced at the yelling on his ear, yelling that John could perceive even though he wasn’t near the man.

 

“Gregory. Kindly do not render myself deaf.”

 

More screaming.

 

“Surely that is not my concern. The High Warlock wishes to meet with you.”

 

Cursing, more screaming.

 

“I can’t possibly attend… Very well, I will.”

 

He sighed, like he was trying hard to rein his emotions. Sherlock knew his brother better than anyone, it was minimal, but he could see it.

 

“Seraphina, he will see us in an hour. Apparently I have to come with you.”

 

Sherlock moved close to him, and spoke low enough that he was sure only his brother could catch. Well, he didn’t think warlocks had enhanced hearing anyway.

 

“It is rare of you to bend at someone’s will, brother.”

 

His brother looked back at him, an icy, determined gaze that almost made Sherlock flinch.

 

“In this world, Gregory Lestrade is a very important man. If I want to keep peace between our allies in this city, I’ll do my best to avoid displeasing the leader of the London pack.”

“Lestrade sounded more than displeased to me.”

“Well, yes, woe to us all. We are forced to dealings with an angry dog.”

 

Mycroft sounded bitter, and Sherlock thought he sensed something else there. Anthea came through the door then, dressed in Shadowhunter fighting gear. Sherlock looked at her with some sort of longing and for the first time in the night, John, who was keeping his eyes on him, thought he saw some regret in his face. Regret that he was denied his fate, his family’s legacy and the power it carried. But, with it, a full life of submission to a higher power, to follow a chain of command. Mycroft was perfect for it, because he was sure to rise to the position he wanted to be on in the first place, after being a very well behaved boy. Sherlock, on the other hand, loathed following orders and rebelled constantly against authority, preferred to draft his own rules instead.

 

“Sir, the car is ready for you.”

“Thank you, darling, that would be all.”

“I’m going to take Marisol out of the Institute for a while, just call me if you need me.”

“I don’t anticipate I will bother you again tonight, thank you.”

 

As they exited the building, Harry pulled John and Magnus aside, letting Mycroft and Sherlock take the lead.

 

“You both should know, though Greg Lestrade is a good man, his pack does not welcome outsiders in their mist. You can say his second and third in command have a real grudge with other Downworlders and get easily offended. That is to say, they are both bitches most of the time. Especially his second in command. When James died, Greg was also granted custody of his daughter. That made his second, who was third when James was alfa, even more protective of him, because James daughter is her niece. Her only sister died in childbirth, multiple births often more common with born werewolves, and only one of the pups survived. She is ruthless, and it won’t be good if she sees us as a threat. She won’t even let us talk to Greg. So we all need to be on our best behavior today.”

 

She kept her eyes fixed on John when she said that.

 

“What?”

 

John was suddenly annoyed and it came rougher than he intended. Harry smirked.

 

“Precisely that, brother. Try to keep your temper to yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Lovelaces, Jessamine and George, are both Guardians of the London Institute. Jessamine perished in Victorian times, during the affair of the Infernal Devices and George didn't survive the Ascension process as he finished Shadowhunter Academy. In his honor, Simon Lewis adopts the last name Lovelace when he ascends as a Shadowhunter.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group goes to meet with London's Packmaster, and alliances are revealed. Sherlock gains new insight on the running of the werewolf pack. Mycroft and Greg don't see eye to eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update! And on time too, since I'm right now at the other side of the Globe it feels like success to me. Thanks to everyone who is still reading.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: Homophobia and homophobic slurs in this chapter.

The ride to Greg’s flat was quiet, with Sherlock and Mycroft communicating silently with each other in that annoying way that only siblings could, while John pointedly ignored his own siblings and Magnus hummed some song no one had ever heard before. It had the word ‘butt’ in it a couple of times.

 

“All the strongest wolves of the werewolf pack live in this building. Greg’s flat is on the fifth floor.”

 

Sherlock had been here before, once, but… He whispered to Mycroft.

 

“This can’t be right. Molly Hooper’s flat is in this building.”

“Miss Hooper is Gregory’s second in command. She is, in fact, a werewolf. And a rather vicious little thing, if I might add.”

“It’s always the quiet ones.”

“Quite right.”

 

The car left them of the entrance of the building, where a doorman glanced at Mycroft and the rest of them, but let them in without more comment. He nodded at Mycroft, who lifted his umbrella his way, and Sherlock knew this was not the first time his brother had visited this building. They walked to the lift, and as it opened it revealed DI Michael Dimmock and Anderson. They both went wide eyed at seeing the group in front of them, but neither of them acknowledged anyone but Mycroft and Harry, which they both greeted with a nod.

 

“I have a sudden disappointment in werewolves right now.”

“Being a werewolf doesn’t mean you are especially bright or even remotely intelligent, brother mine. That applies to the rest of Downworlders and Shadowhunters too, I’m afraid.”

“But Anderson, My.”

“I know, truly a shame.”

 

John snickered at this. He could see it now. Probably half of the Yard was composed by werewolves. They soon reached the fifth floor, the lift opened to a well-lit hallway with a good carpet and some tables with ornamental vases and dried flowers. This floor had only three doors in it, and Mycroft and Harry continued walking to the door at the end of the hallway. Mycroft knocked and soon the door opened, revealing a chain lock and the face of a very annoyed Molly Hooper.

 

“What are you doing here, Shadowhunter?”

“Miss Hooper, as you clearly know, my presence was requested. Your packmaster asked me to come. Open the door.”

 

She looked at the rest of them through the small space available, but the angle didn’t let her see the whole group.

 

“Yes, you and Seraphina if I recall, you were not supposed to bring you own entourage. I don’t want more than one Shadowhunter in this flat.”

“I’m the only Shadowhunter here, which you will clearly find out for yourself if you opened the door. What harm can you expect of little old me? Surely you need to do proper surveillance before sending the rest of my group away. Do hurry up, I’m not getting any younger out here, and I’m not immortal, like some of my companions.”

 

She snorted at the self-deprecatory comment, because she knew Gideon Verlac was a very dangerous man, and Mycroft Holmes a more dangerous one even. But the last bit clearly sparked her curiosity, so she closed the door and removed the chain. When she opened the door, her eyes widened at the sight of Sherlock and John, but she was still blocking the entrance and didn’t comment or greet them in anyway. Sally Donovan was seating in the large sofa on the sitting room, a dark and feral look on her face.

 

“Sal, go get the boss. Tell him we have unexpected guests. You know the drill, umbrella by the door.”

 

Sally never took her gaze of them until she reached the corridor which presumably lead to the bedroom area. The flat didn’t seem very big, but it was modern and looked comfortable enough. There was a fireplace, with a big painting of a little girl with reddish brown curly hair, green eyes and a happy look on her face. John recognized the picture from Greg’s desk, this was his daughter, Addy. She looked a little like Molly, and he recalled the last thing his sister told him. So Addy was not Greg’s, biologically at least, and she was Molly Hooper’s niece. Molly was Greg’s second, so Sally could only be his third. Harry was right about Sally, she could be a bitch sometimes, but he had trouble imagining mousey Molly Hooper as the fierce werewolf she really was, the werewolf protecting her pack and niece with her own body against intruders. The Molly he saw right there at the door was not someone he would like to cross if he could avoid it. After all, his long years walking this earth had made him a little (not a lot, true) wiser. His musings were soon interrupted by a happy squeal coming from the bedroom area, and soon enough, a little girl that couldn’t be more than ten was coming running their way, clad in a pink sleeping gown, followed by a troubled looking Sally, who clearly was trying to herd her back to her room and failing miserably.

 

“UNCLE MY!!!!!”

 

She ran to the door and evaded Molly, jumping straight into Mycroft’s arms, who had them already extended as he lifted the little girl from the ground. Molly was now glaring at him, a murderous looked that rivaled the looks of surprise from the rest of the viewers, who clearly expected nothing like this.

 

“Princess Adrienne, look how much you’ve grown! Well, I can barely lift you now, you are going to be taller than me soon enough.”

“I really don’t think so, Uncle My, you know Mama and Papa were not as tall as you are! And aren’t Shadowhunters supposed to be very strong? Auntie Molly says they are strong and that I have to be careful because most of them are bad people. But _you_ are good, right Uncle My? And strong, like Daddy. Because Daddy says he is going to lift me up until I’m forty! Can you imagine, Uncle My? When I’m forty Daddy is going to be like a thousand years old and surely _I_ would be carrying _him_ around. Are you staying for a while? Daddy doesn’t say it, but he is usually happier when you are around. Why don’t you visit us like you used to? Are you mad with Daddy? Or is Daddy mad at you again?”

“Now, Addy, stop it, what’s with the twenty questions? Your Uncle Myc is a very busy man. Go back to your room darling, it’s way past your bedtime.”

 

Greg Lestrade appeared, still wearing his shirt and tie, without a jacket, but clearly just home from work. He had a harder look than John remembered on him, and he was not surprised at seeing the rest of the group that joined Mycroft and Harry, unlike Molly had been. Clearly he had a little more information and background than his second.

 

“But I won’t get to say goodbye to Uncle My, and who knows when I’ll be seeing him again, with you fighting with him and all that Daddy.”

 

Greg sighed.

 

“Adrienne Lestrade-Scott. I won’t tell you again.”

“ _Fine_. But only if Uncle My tucks me in.”

 

She looked at Mycroft with puppy dog eyes, and the man himself looked back at Greg, asking for permission without voicing his thoughts.

 

“You know the way Myc. We’ll wait for you before we start.”

“Uncle My, can you tell me a story? A Shadowhunter story!”

“Not today, pet. Well, maybe a short one…”

 

Greg glanced at the group and offered the space in his sitting room.

 

“Tea? Or anything else for you? I have beer, cider and maybe something stronger somewhere.”

“Not tonight, Greg, thank you.”

“I was wondering about you John, you know, you were clearly something else to tolerate that one.”

 

He pointed at Sherlock as he sat in the big sofa, and soon Sally and Molly took each of his sides, the former to his left and the latter to his right. Greg irradiated an aura of authority and command, and John wondered how he missed the supernatural power and his place in the food chain.

 

“But now, now I can see the family resemblance. You are Seraphina’s brother, and since that one clearly is Magnus Bane, you can only be Johann Sun.”

 

Magnus waved his way, rings glittering in his hand.

 

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Lestrade.”

“Likewise, but call me Greg or Lestrade, everyone does. This are my second and third in command, Molly Hooper and Sally Donovan.”

 

Just then, Mycroft emerged from the room, and Greg glanced his way, rolling his eyes as Mycroft roamed in the kitchen like he owned it, getting some really dirty looks from Sally and Molly, taking two Scotch glasses from the top counter and grabbing a bottle from one of the drawers. He poured one for himself and brought one back to Greg, who took it without any comment.

 

“Well, _almost_ everyone does. Tell me, what’s going on.”

“I thought you were going to resume your screaming when we arrived.”

“Oh, I will yell at you, just not when we have company. For once, you must know that I don’t appreciate to be called to clean up your dirty work. My team had no business dealing with a dead Shadowhunter and a fairy, ta for that by the way.”

“Gregory, it was the only way, someone called the mundane police on this, and instead of rerouting it through the appropriate channels the thing wound up in DI Hopkins’s desk. Surely you can see your involvement was necessary to ensure that he would retire from the crime scene, no questions asked.”

“You could have done that yourself.”

“But by including you, it was done less suspiciously and the case remained in the Met’s jurisdiction. I thought you hated when I removed cases from your associates and reassigned them to my people.”

“ _Mundane_ cases, Mycroft. The bloody Shadow World stays on your side of the fence. We don’t mess with other Downworlders. We respect the Accords, but neither my pack or the Praetor Lupus want to deal with problems with the Fairy Courts. I’ll have you know that minutes after my team left, I received a visit from someone I don’t want to ever see again in my life.”

 

Mycroft paled at this, and John, Harry and Magnus exchanged looks between them.

 

“Gregory, I’m so sorry.”

“Yes, you should be sorry. I don’t want to be held responsible, but if he comes near me and threatens me or any member of my pack again, I don’t care if he is the sodding prince of whatever, I’m going to impale him in the nearest iron fence I can find.”

 

John laughed, and all eyes turned to him, Mycroft raising his eyebrows and Harry with an alarmed look. Clearly she thought John was going to offend Sally and Molly, so they will try to rip his limbs off. She didn't now they already knew John and his twisted sense of humor. But Greg was smirking, and the women looked as relaxed as they could be with powerful Downworlders invading their territory.

 

“Just let me know if you need any help with that, mate, I’m sure Riegan would make a nice sculpture somewhere.”

“I’m not sure if we can pay your fees, I know you warlocks never do anything for free.”

“Consider it my treat if it comes to that.”

 

That said with a feral smile and a look that revealed whatever it was that made John Watson one of the scariest supernatural beings alive this day and age. Sherlock looked at him like he couldn’t believe someone like John existed, and everyone was silent for what it seemed ages, until Mycroft cleared his throat.

 

“Well, that sounds… amusing. But we need to get back to the matter at hand. It seems someone it’s trying to stir trouble in the London Shadow World. A fairy knight and a Shadowhunter were murdered, and there is a Vampire witness that claims the Shadowhunter murdered the knight inside of Fairie. Clearly someone wants to destabilize the current cold peace agreement, probably by stirring sympathies from other Downworlders to the Fairies and their current plight against Shadowhunters. Clearly if they are not safe on their own realm, no one else is safe from Shadowhunter retaliation and the Accords are a moot point. The fact that the main witness in favor of the fairies is a vampire is suspicious at least. I’ve never had any problem dealing with Emilio before.”

“And that’s when your intel is a day late. Emilio is no longer the leader of the London nest. The fangers have a new leader, and you are not going to like it. Marie, Myc. It’s strange she didn’t send a messenger for an audience with you.”

 

Harry gasped, and Mycroft pressed the bridge of his nose.

 

“By the Angel, not her.”

“Yes. She is the most ruthless vampire in that nest. It seems there was an internal power struggle and Emilio conveniently decided to bolt to Spain. Rumor has it he is looking for her sire, so that he can make her step down.”

 

Mycroft snorted, something so unlike him that Sherlock looked at him and blinked a couple of times.

 

“Good luck finding him. Last time I knew he was hiding somewhere in India.”

“It’s worth a try. He is one of the oldest and she is one of his only two fledgelings. He can make her see reason. Or else.”

“But Greg, you can’t seriously mean you want him to come back here. Do you even like him? Do you even know him?”

“Of course I don’t, nobody knows him and nobody really likes him either. But he is useful now and then. It’s been more than a century since he came here to London. So I don’t know him, but if he comes to rein in his progeny, fine by me.”

“You don’t know what you are asking for. Trust me, I, know him. And Johann knows him too. She is ruthless because it’s in her blood.”

“Who are we talking about?”

“Vittorio, brother.”

“You want to bring the one vampire who has escaped _me_ , not once, but _three_ times, back here to London? Oh, I so look forward to this. You know I’m not bound by the Accords in this case. His crimes against mundanes and everyone else for that matter are reason enough for me to put a wooden arrow through his chest. He comes back and it’s hunting time. I didn’t know his spawn lived here. God knows I had enough with Camille. And now you are telling me there’s two of them? I thought Camille was Vittorio’s only child.”

“Even so, Camille is dead. And there is no evidence Emilio is going to succeed finding Vittorio before the Fairies mount a full strategy here in London. I would prefer to avoid full Clave involvement on this affair and I really need your support on this.”

“No, no, no. We are sitting this one out Mycroft. No use in mixing my pack in Downworlder politics. Keep our noses out of other people’s business, that’s our prerogative.”

“Do you even know what that word means?”

 

Greg growled at Mycroft and stood, while Sally and Molly growled from their seats. Mycroft stood up and removed some invisible lint from his suit jacket.

 

“Fine. So I guess I’m are done here. Harriet, feel free to stay and discuss whatever you wanted to discuss with the Praetor here. I did not leave the Institute for this.”

 

He grabbed his umbrella from the door and walked out of the flat. Greg sat back down, clearly still angry.

 

“You two should get a room. The sexual tension in this room alone... But it will be hard to resolve it if you keep getting into a pissing contest all the time.”

 

Greg glared at Magnus, who raised his arms in surrender but winked saucily back.

 

“Are you sure you won’t reconsider Greg? We gain more by keeping the peace and helping sustain the Accords.”

“And if something comes to really threaten my pack, I’ll consider it, but right now you got a dead Shadowhunter and a dead fairy. It’s none of your business either Harry, you should look the other way this once.”

“I really think you should think this over mate.”

“And who are you to talk? Do not pretend you’ve not been hiding with this one in your flat, trying and failing to be a mundane. Don’t try to make me think you care about what happens in the Downworld at all, John Watson, it doesn’t suit you. I have my priorities sorted, I will take care of my pack, my family, I’m not poking a stick into this shithole.”

“Let’s go, sis, I know a lost fight when I see it. It was a pleasure to meet you Mr. Lestrade.”

 

Magnus stood up from his seat, just as they heard a crashing noise outside.

 

“What the…”

 

Greg stood up faster than Sherlock had ever seen him move and looked through the window.

 

“Sod this. Molly, with me, Sally protect the flat.”

 

Then he disappeared through the window with Molly right behind him, the rest of them stood, John and Harry looking and moving to the window, not before John growled at Sherlock who was trying to get a look.

 

“ _Sherlock._ You stay here.”

 

Harry, John and Magnus jumped behind what Sherlock supposed were Greg and Molly, because in their place there was a big wolf with silver fur and smaller but not less impressive brown wolf, howling and biting at multiple scorpion creatures that his brother was impressively battling with a very big sword, which he was maneuvering with his right hand. His suit was torn in multiple places, revealing his marks, which seemed to help him, because with his other hand he was giving himself new ones with a brilliant instrument. Soon Harry and Magnus were right there beside them, throwing blue waves at the creatures, keeping them at bay from the rest. But _John_. John went straight to one of the creatures with his bare hands, ripping limbs, avoiding stingers and mouth.

* * *

Mycroft just had this type of luck. It didn’t matter if he kept out of the field most times, preferring to use his massive intellect to deal with difficult affairs and sending the rest of the London Enclave to hunt the demons they were supposed to keep at bay. But as soon as he found himself distracted and angry, angry at himself for snapping at one of his only friends and insulting his intelligence, he found himself under a surprise attack by not one, but ten Ravener demons. He did his best to eliminate the threat by himself. It would be lying to say that he wasn’t a little relieved when the others joined him, especially since the demons had surprised him and managed to hit him one or two times with their poisonous stingers. As always, he carried his weapons and stele with him, but he felt the energy draining from him, even as he drew more healing runes on his skin. As John ripped the head of one of the last ones, he felt the last of his energy drain and it required all of his strength to keep himself upright.

 

“Myc, are you hurt?”

 

He felt more than heard Greg standing behind him, and he shrugged his suit jacket off, giving it to Lestrade, who has standing next to him, starkers, as any recently transformed werewolf would be. Greg, bless him, took the jacket and tied it to his front, shielding his nether regions from the cold but still leaving his very wonderful plush arse exposed. He risked a glance to his friend now, his chest with very sparse grey hair, his tattoo with the words and logo of the Praetor Lupus, _Beati bellicosi_ , and the two paws that surrounded it. James and Adrienne’s paws.

 

“No, I’m quite all right, thank you. My sincere apologies for…”

“Leave it there. We’re in. No one comes near my territory without expecting retaliation.”

“Thank you, Gregory.”

 

He almost collapsed, before he felt warm arms, one around his back and another on his waist, stabilizing him.

 

“JOHN! One of those suckers bit Myc.”

 

John came out of his adrenaline high to see Mycroft almost collapsing on Greg, leaning on the shorter man for support. His suit jacket was around the DCI’s waist, and his shirt was ripped in multiple places. The doctor in him went into full assessing mode, finding the gash that was greening just on his upper arm, near a deep, ugly scar were Mycroft’s parabatai rune must have been many years ago.

 

“Yes, allow me.”

 

Magic rolled out of him in blueish waves, and soon it was less green and more red, before almost healing completely. His brother came along to check his handiwork, a look of admiration in his young face.

 

“I would have used a potion for that, you are really talented with the healing spells big brother. I’d forgotten how much of a pleasure it was seeing you work.”

“This will heal nicely without a potion. Too bad it bit you in an already sensitive spot.”

 

Mycroft huffed at that comment, annoyance mixed with embarrassment at exposing such a private thing for all of them to see. A mangled parabatai bond was enough to send some people to the grave. He shivered as he remembered the moment he felt Stephen’s life leaving his body. Their parabatai bond was strained at the moment, since they were both fighting in opposite bands, no less. But he remembered that cold feeling of emptiness, that feeling of nothing when he simply new Stephen was dead. Now his body rested with his ancestors, and some inner part of him couldn’t wait to join him.

 

_Entreat me not to leave thee,_

_Or return from following after thee— For whither thou goest, I will go,_

_And where thou lodgest, I will lodge._

_Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God._

_Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried._

_The Angel do so to me, and more also, If aught but death part thee and me._

Well, something other than death had separated them in life, but in death he will be buried right beside him.

 

“How did you ever manage?”

 

Magnus asked softly, basically speaking in a whisper, probably not meaning Mycroft to hear him. But Mycroft knew how he managed, how he still manages, duty, honor and the man standing beside him holding him, that’s how he escaped the certain madness that comes with losing a parabatai bond. He remembers the real moment he lost his parabatai, all those years ago, when he found him and two other members of the Circle cornering a young werewolf in an alleyway in London.

_“Tsk, tsk, three against one. Not even fair by Circle standards. You are used to cornering children and old Downworlders.”_

_“Gideon. Get out.”_

_“And is that the voice of my parabatai I’m hearing. Stephen, oh yes, continue, your mum will be so proud…”_

_“DON’T YOU DARE TALK ABOUT MY MUM! You are a disgrace, a queer Shadowhunter is not a Shadowhunter, a disgusting fag. I’m not your parabatai anymore.”_

_And he thrust his knife into his arm, on his parabatai mark, the pain unbearable for him, which made him bend forward in agony. But Gideon was strong, stronger than him, and that was just what he needed. His trusty umbrella, which now changed into an electrum whip. He looked at it with curiosity, he never knew what the spell would gift him with, but it was usually exactly what he needed. With a couple of strokes of the whip he managed to hurt the two others, leaving enough space for the werewolf to join him on his side of the alley, close to the exit._

_“Run.”_

_He adressed the young man who was now standing beside him. But, instead of running, the man took his trousers off and transformed, a big grey wolf took his place. He growled at the Shadowhunters, who decided that retreat was the best strategy. They didn’t like their odds against one of their own, clearly one who didn’t mind raising his weapons against his brethren, even his parabatai. Stephen recovered just enough to spit at Gideon’s feet._

_“You are dead to me.”_

_“See you soon, then.”_

_And he waved, as menacing as was possible._

_“Thanks mate. I owe you now. What’s your name?”_

_“Gideon. Gideon Verlac.”_

_“Ah, do they give you shit for the last name too? My name is Lestrade, Greg Lestrade that is.”_

_“Pleased to meet you, Gregory. I have to go back to the Institute, but I can accompany you until you are closer to your pack.”_

_“No need, ta for that. I can usually fend for my own. But they caught me off guard. My friend, she is pregnant, and I told her to run away before they caught up with her. I didn’t realize this alley had no exit.”_

_“Ah, I see. Is it your pup?”_

_The man actually snickered._

_“Wow, subtle. No, but their dad is dead. And pack takes care of its own. I hope there was just the three of them, though.”_

_“Better be on your way, then. Goodbye, Gregory.”_

 

And the memories were just that, memories, his parabatai was dead and that empty hole was never filled again. Even when his best friend, the wolf he once saved, tried his best, no one, no one could repair what he had lost. And that was before. Before James, before Riegan, before they left everything else unsaid.

 

“I was not the first or last man who ever lost his parabatai.”

 

And he felt the grip grow tighter on his waist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The centered bit is the Parabatai oath, which is taken from Cassandra Clare's book, but basically it's taken from the Bible originally. It's the oath Jonathan makes to David in the Bible.
> 
> A parabatai is a fellow warrior, a brother in arms, basically a T'hyla in Vulcan (sue me, I also love Star Trek). They must find each other before their 18th birthday and make a ritual to bond. They can never be involved in a romantic relationship with each other (against Shadowhunter law). The runes made by one's parabatai are stronger and basically they fight together better than with anyone else. Not every Shadowhunter has a parabatai, actually bonds like that are not common.  
> Known parabatai in Cassandra Clare's series:  
> Simon Lovelace and Clarissa Fray  
> Jace Herondale and Alec Lightwood  
> Will Herondale and James Carstairs  
> Julie Beauvale and Beatriz Mendoza  
> Emma Carstairs and Julian Blackthorn
> 
> And others, but it's longish now, so I won't bore you anymore. Hit me on [tumblr](http://lmirandas.tumblr.com) if you fancy a chat.


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